GreyWalker
by Immortalis
Summary: With Beyond Birthday’s escape, forces begin to conjure and conspire…looking down with curious hungry eyes as the game between detective L and Kira unfolds. B wnats to play as well. Please read and review. Pairings include BXNaomi, LXNaomi, and mild BXL
1. Chapter 1

DEAtHNOtE PLEASE READ

**Disclaimer**—I have no rights or responsibility of DeathNote, as that privilege belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art by Takeshi Obata—and if I did, L  (along with Alucard, Hannibal Lector, the Phantom of the opera, Jack Sparrow, Abel Nightroad, Jareth the Goblin King, Aloysius X. L. Pendergast, Count of Monte Cristo and Argent) would be chained up in my basement dripped in chocolate with whipped-cream and I would be enjoying it very much…and no doubt he would too. 

**Title**—GreyWalker…or formally known as The Fallen

**Synopsis**—Even the dead have their way of making themselves known. 

**Rating**—PG13 

**Chapter Title**—Scorpions in my Mind

**Chapter Synopsis**—Imagine that you were going to kill someone, now what do you think would be the most difficult part?

**Author's Notes**—For the stake of argument, just read and review. This story is based on the Japanese movie rather than the manga, because I love L too much to have him perish at the manipulating hands of that selfless evil monster, Light Yagami. So, GreyWalker is a story greatly influenced by a particular idea of mine, where L Lawliet comes back from the other-side. Please, just read and review.

As always with my other fan fictions, there are Foot-Notes at the end of every the chapter. Do not hesitant to ask questions.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO Scorpions in my Mind OOO

"_Ryuzaki_…"

Things in the Kira-case had been progressing well, ever since the discovery of the DeathNote… _however_, the investigation had recently deviated from otherwise normal and logical police-work and towards a field that few ever mentioned and none understood—the "paranormal." This direction was only affirmed by the constant, almost ominous presence of a Shinigami. A Death-God who named itself "_Rem_."

It was a figure, who much to the dismay of the Kira-Task-Force lingered, always trailing behind them or more specifically following wherever the killing notebook went. It was as if the Shinigami and the DeathNote were two magnets, and their opposite forces were so strong that nothing—and absolute _nothing_ would come between them. Besides it was written that whenever one went, the other must surely follow. _And_ if a Death-God wasn't unsettling enough, the thing moved with a creaking sound as if someone was walking on old rotten stairs that were bound to give in at any time. _Perhaps it has arthritis_, the idiot Matsuda proposed, no matter how innocently. However despite the sudden change of events, the Shinigami was no less distributing to the eye. It had yellow-golden eyes that seemed to peer and dissect your soul, a pig-like nose, inspired Medusa hair and a body, which appeared to be constructed from white bones. But, bones from where, or better yet from _what_?

_Human or Shinigami, or perhaps something entirely different?_

That was quite possible.

_After all, who knows what Otherworldly things existed out in the world?_

"_Ryuzaki_," came the voice again, just barely heard over the rambling, pondering thoughts.

_How intriguing_… a monotone voice mused thickly to himself, _A Shinigami…so they do exist_.

In the bleak corner, there was the figure of a young man, thin and apparently fairly tall if his back wasn't curved like a hunchback. He did not sit on his bottom like normal, civilized people, but on the balls of his bare feet with his knees bundled at his chest. Despite the sophisticated, high-technical equipment surrounding him, he was otherwise plain, wearing faded jeans and long-sleeved white-shirt that only heightened his pale, almost sickly complexion. Besides, the clothes practically hanged on his bony provinces. If that wasn't odd enough, there were dark lines under his wide, bulging eyes. It was like he hadn't slept in years, almost as if his sense of justice would not permit to rest. His eyes were uncommon dark, virtually black and hidden under a mass of spiky disheveled hair. Still, his eyes watched and interrogated the Shinigami, relentlessly. The young man watched the creature with mute interest, like a museum patron examining a radical piece of art.

_Radical and quite unnatural_, he noted to no one. Flicking aside a strand of oily hair, he proceeded to stack up sugar cubes with delicate precision.

Believe it or not, this particular individual was the most respected detective in the world and perhaps in the history of mankind, but his identity was always shrouded in mystery—until now. He was none other than L. 

Or Ryuzaki.

"_Ryuzaki_!" grew louder and louder the name.

L wondered, _What other things lurk in the shadows, and prey on man's weakness and especially his desires?_

But perhaps the bigger question was—would you even want to know what was out there?

A hand slapped on his shoulder and the grinning face of Light Yagami came into view. Huffing a short laugh he said, "Earth to Ryuzaki."

L smiled politely but not sincerely. "Hmm, yes."

"Glad to see that you are still with us." Straightening his red tie, Light Yagami flopped himself into the chair and ran his limber fingers through his hair. He exhaled and then openly expressed his well-rehearsed concern. "You nearly gave me a fright, you know. Staring off into the distance like that. Not responding. I didn't know what was happening." –And that was the truth of it. Light added sweetly, "_I think you should take a load off_."

"Not likely." The detective raised a suspicious brow, because foremost he never trusted Light Yagami, or any advise that slipped out from his teeth, and crooked smile. Looking at the sugary tower of goodness, L plucked off the newest addition and dropped the sugar cube into the wide gaping abyss of his mouth, and sucked gingerly on it. Swallowing he said, "Besides… I believe a vast majority of the population refers such preoccupied behavior as 'daydreaming,' or 'off in La-La Land,' am I correct?"

"Yes," he answered. "So, which of the two were you visiting?"

Dropping his eyes L reluctantly answered, "_Neither_. Just thinking."

Interested in whatever the great, mysterious and seemingless nameless detective was thinking, Light raised a skeptical brow and asked hesitantly, "Dare I ask what were you thinking about?"

A measurable beat of silence followed.

He answered with his voice controlled and perfectly emotionless, "Death…or more important _murder_."

"Wh—what?" At such a blunt answer, Light sat up in his chair and demanded in a hushed whisper. "_Murder_? Why such ghastly thoughts? That's terrible. You're not depressed again, are you?"

"Depressed, no" he confessed wholeheartedly. Shaking his head, L nibbled his thumbnail and eyes returning back to the Shinigami, he said grimly, "Perhaps it's our new guest."

Unlike the other members, save but Light Yagami—who had a 64 chance of being Kira now—L was not unsettled by the presence of the Death-God, but strangely relieved. Calmed by the fact that a major piece of the puzzle laid inches from him, locked in a glass box—the DeathNote. It was the turn of the tide, and all the unanswered and relenting questions that probed his mind, now lay bared.

_Still_, he suspected that _something_ was missing.

"What? The Shinigami," Light inquired. "I suppose it is possible that a Death-God could inspire such thoughts. So," he promptly eagerly, "what about murder?"

At first he did not answer, because it seemed again, he was swept up at staring at the Shinigami, and then he said suddenly, "_Light Yagami_…I want to imagine that you are going to kill someone."

"Is this another one of your games? Because, if so I really have no interest in playing." The young man stiffened at such a request. "Ryuzaki, I really must protest—"

Smiling L said, "Just indulge me. Entertain my thoughts." When Light had no further protest he continued, "Good," he said. "Imagine that you are going to kill someone. Now, what do you think would be the most difficult part?"

Light was speechless. Never before had he been ask to participate in such a morbid discussion, especially with L. "I—I don't know—"

"Make an effort to answer now, Light," L demanded roughly. "Three, two, one…Spare me that look—I am not making fun of you, or playing linguistic tricks on you. I am completely serious."

"I am failing to see the point of this Ryuzaki," he said angrily.

"We are dealing with murder, Light. It perfectly fits," he said as if the answer was completely obvious.

A pause followed, and the L explained, "People are not designed to die easily. Humans are surprisingly sturdy creatures. Besides, there is the tendency to resist being killed. Survive to live. Fight or die. Nobody wants to be killed, no one wants to die. And there's a good chance they'll try to kill you back. From this particular point of view…to murder someone just by writing their name in a black notebook is a flagrant violation of fair play, wouldn't you say? If not, _cowardly_…"

"I don't know." A dark shadow crossed Light's eyes at the hidden insult.

"True murder requires imagination."

Recoiling slightly Light sneered, "Don't tell me murder is an art."

"Maybe…" Ryuzaki meekly confessed. "It all boils down to a matter of perspective, and the same thing could be said with _justice_." Light blinked, realizing that statement was entirely true. There were numerous, if not countless views about what exactly was justice. Such as Kira's justice…and L's justice, and who is to say which one, if any was correct.

The Shinigami who had been warring a staring-contest between L, it seemed had finally given up the chase. It's mystic voice complained, "_You_ are staring at _me_."

L simply smiled and nodded, as if to say, "yes, I know."

"Ryuzaki…" the youth warned.

The detective blinked, returning back into reality and mumbled apologetically, "Forgive me if it disturbs you, Shinigami-Rem." L added, "You are not the first to voice that complaint."

"And I doubt I shall not be the last," the white spongy creature noted with a hissing rasp. 

"_Mmm_," L noted half to himself and half to Rem, "I suppose that assumption is fair…and most likely accurate."

_A face and a name_, he thought, _were the indigents to murder, or at least in the Kira-Case_. L had always, so adamantly refused to reveal himself, because quite obvious, it was dangerous—if not suicidal. Now, all his precautions were in vain as a Death-God peered at him, with his name laid bare to him. Of course, the idea that this creature could kill him without a regret and hesitation, was certainty not comforting. He found himself wondering exactly which name, if written in the DeathNote would kill him—after all, he had so many. There was Eraldo Coil…Danuve…Ryuga Hideki and Ryuzaki, and that was just to give a few. But perhaps, the more intriguing was, which name was the Shinigami peering at? Which name was dancing in those Shinigami-Eyes?

For L, it was not only the eyes of a Shinigami he was glazing at, but also those of B, Beyond Birthday.

At the memory of B, Ryuzaki froze. Afterwards, a rare sight occurred, he closed his eyes. Actually closed his eyes, and much longer than a blink.

For reasons yet to be explained, B had a special sense of sight. He _always_ knew your name before you said it, and somehow knew the time of death of every person he met, face-to-face. He had seen the world through those eyes since before he could congenitally remember, hence his nickname, Beyond Birthday. It was this particular gift was made him a possible and furthermore, a most valuable asset to the Whammy House, and more importantly— one reason L took every precaution to avoid those eyes.

And yet, here and now, he was willingly staring at a pair of Shinigami–Eyes.

"Something is brothering you, Ryuzaki."

Snapping his eyes open, L continued his staring contest. "Shinigami-Eyes…"

"What about them?" Light asked.

_Was it possible that Beyond Birthday had the eyes of a Shinigami? _If not, how else could be find victims with the initials B.B. or to find people who were fated to die on a certain day at a certain time. It was always that last part that irked L, bothered him when B confessed, "I am not guilty, they were bound to die that day anyways." How did he know that they going to die? As Rem said, normally contact with a Shinigami was a prerequisite for acquisition, but B had no such contact with one.

"_If only I could see the death of the world_," L said outloud, quoting B.

"What?" Light asked. "What did you say?"

"How did he know that they were going to die?" L asked outloud. "Did he see it," he inquired to no one in particular.

"Um Ryuzaki," Light said hesitantly, "Stop it. It freaks people out, including me. You are staring again."

"I am not staring, but remembering."

Remembering the first time, he met B face-to-face.

The first and only time, Beyond Birthday witnessed his name, which was the very one the Shinigami was looking at.

Inside his mind, L was revisiting the past, which was something he did often as a detective—but this time, it was special. It was personal. Reality blurred as L saw a single jailhouse cell. Inside was a figure, black and charred with the thick smell of gasoline drifting about him. His clothes had melted against his skin and could just barely be distinguished. One arm was handcuff to the bars, and an IV butterfly inserted in that hand, which feed him morphine and saline to replace the lost fluids from the burnt skin and muscles. He was sitting on the cold concrete floor, couched over with his knees bundled tight to his chest, and fingertips drumming on the iron bars. Drumming nonchalantly, as if his current predicament meant nothing and was boring to him. 

Any other person would have died from such intense exposure to fire or at least in extreme pain, so much so that the screams would be endless and echoing in the jailhouse. And yet, he never whimpered once. Never grimaced. Never cried.

Standing before the bars, L peered closer inside and saw a near-perfect image of himself staring up at him.

A mirror reflection…

A mirage…

Save but the burns, of course.

Peering out from a mass of black hair was a pair of strange eyes that for a moment had a slight hue of maroon to them. They traveled upwards and focus on a spot just hanging about his head—just like how Miss Amane had done at the college, when he first met her. Smiling like the sadistic murderer he was, B spoke in a low and raspy voice that echoed in his mind, "Ah…it is a pleasure, _L Lawliet_."

So, he could see it. See the name and when they die.

Jumping out of the chair L called out, "Watari! Get me a transfer to the Los Angeles Correctional Facility."

TBC

OOO

If you made it this far, I must thank you.

Foot Notes

**O **Basically, this is a story regarding L coming back form the other-side. Yes, I know that the story about Taro Kagami is just a back-story and a test for the original DeathNote story. Otherwise, it was the first prequel. I know about the Death-Easer, I do think it defeats the whole purpose of the DeathNote. I have constructed a much different idea…partly because we know so little about the Shinigami-King…

**O** With Beyond Birthday, I did my research by reading Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases, which I highly recommend reading. It might be a bit short for my taste, but very educational towards the DeathNote universe.

**O **"_If only I could see the death of the world,_" is a quote from the book and more importantly from B himself. I would love it if they mad it into a movie, like DeathNote, and DeathNote: The Last Name and L Change the World. That would be so wicked.

**O** Yes, I know that Beyond Birthday is dead with Kira starts his killing game. He dies on January 21, 2004—but let is pretend he did not.


	2. Distraction

DEAtHNOtE 

**PLEASE READ**

**Disclaimer**—Seeing how the DeathNote universe belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art of Takeshi Obata, I own nothing. _Nothing_. Besides, if I did, L –-(along with Alucard, Hannibal Lector, the Phantom of the opera, Jack Sparrow, Abel Nightroad, Jareth the Goblin King, Aloysius X. L. Pendergast, Gankutsuou and Argent)—would be chained up in my basement.

My personal sex toys. If you want to, you are more than welcome to join. There's more than enough to go around. If you don't like my selection, by all means bring your own (winks).

**Title**—GreyWalker

**Synopsis**—Even the dead have their way of making themselves known. 

**Rating**—PG13 to R. Just be mature.

**Chapter Title**—Distraction

**Chapter Synopsis**—Desperate for answers, L has no choice by to call on the special and daresay, unnatural services of his Protégé, Beyond Birthday. However such measures require privacy…

**Author's Notes**—For the stake of argument, just read and review. Originally, I had not intended to use Beyond Birthday in this particular story, but after reading Another Note: Los Angeles BB Murder Case, I was too tempted to resist. By using him, things fall into placer much easier. Yes, I know!! _I know!_ I know that Beyond Birthday dies on January 21, 2004—so don't flame me or keep reminding me. (I know.) However this is one of the privileges of , we can write things as _we_ see fit. Besides, after cosplaying as B, which was awesome and with the aid of MADM05, I could not say no. Please, do enjoy and if you can, read the book.

Ta,

Immortalis

P.S. Strawberry jam, anyone?

OOO Distraction OOO

_Was it possible that Beyond Birthday had the eyes of a Shinigami?_

A pair of strange eyes that had a hue of maroon—if only for a moment, traveled upwards and peered intently at a spot just above L's head. It lingered there, and a sadistic smile twitched playfully on the murderer's lips, even despite the fact that they were burnt to fine crisp. The pain of that expression must have been unbearable, and if so, the prisoner gave no inclination. Perhaps, he could not even feel pain. He certainly felt no remorse and no guilt for the terrible, ghastly crimes he had committed. It seemed likely that he was incapable of feeling anything.

Rue Ryuzaki, or known as the letter _B_, spoke in a low raspy voice, "Ah…it is a pleasure." A short paused followed and then he finished, "_L Lawliet_…"

Thinking back to that specific moment in time, the world's greatest detective along with the Kira-Case had come to the conclusion that he could see it. It wasn't a gross exaggeration from the inhabitants of the Wammy House and LAPD—that Beyond Birthday could see the names of anyone he ever met. If not, how could it possible be explained? How else could the intrigues of the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases possibly be logically clarified? True enough, he could have looked through the Los Angeles phonebook scouting for victims with the initials of B.B—however he confessed wholeheartedly, that, "_I am not guilty, they were bound to die that day anyways_."

Out of the entire conversation with B, it was that statement that inked L, it bothered him. Why did he say that? No one could tell when someone was going to die. The idea that someone—even Beyond Birthday—could look at a complete stranger or a close friend, and be able to tell the precise moment that they going to perish, was absurd. It just wasn't rational. Besides death did not have an agenda, much less a routine schedule. _Death was certain_, however, _its hour was uncertain_ **O**.

L certainty did not believe in immortality, first, because it was incompressible to grasp _eternity_. As all things must end, the concept of something going on forever, was quite unnatural. And therefore, not possible.

Regrettable with the discovery of the DeathNote, and better yet, the Shinigami, L had been forced to question everything he believed to be true without fault. Perhaps there was no such thing as truth, but rather perspectives of it—as evidenced by B saying, he was not guilty because his victims, Believe Bridesmaid, Quarter Queen and Backyard Bottomslash **O** were destined to die anyways. Did everyone have a ticking clock above his or her head, which slowly counted down to the exact moment life would seep out of our fleshy, mortal sewed cage? In the few moments before death, could one hear it? Could hear the last, distinctive seconds? At the Los Angeles Correctional Facility, L believed B said that purely for shock valve. And it was quite possible, that he was lying—but when he said it, there was a smile that gloatingly implied I-know-something-you-don't-know.

Besides, B was well known for being brutally honest.

So L concluded that Beyond Birthday could see the name of anyone he met. He said to himself, _He could see the name, and quite possibly when they died_.

Maybe, and just maybe, B could see who might be Kira.

Well, it certainly was worth a try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Jumping out of the chair L called out, "Watari! Get me a transfer to the Los Angeles Correctional Facility."

Light cried out, "Ryuzaki! What's going on? What are you talking about?"

An older gentleman entered the Observation-Room, like an English butler so impeccably well-dressed he seemed to have emerged from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. The man's double-breasted Prince Albert frock coat was immaculately brushed free of wrinkles or imperfections, and whenever he moved, his starched crisp shirt rustled faintly. He bowed and inquired, "Yes, Ryuzaki. Have you the need of something?"

Couched over, he walked closer to his fellow comrade and said, "I need a transfer to the _Los Angeles Correctional Facility_."

The Shinigami watched with mute interest.

Watari blinked, his otherwise smooth and clam face pinched up into that of pure, instinctual fear. He demanded in a harsh whisper, "You cannot be serious."

L smirked. "You know that humor is _not_ my strong suit."

"I must voice my complaint against this, Ryuzaki."

"Do so, if you must," he said plainly, as if to say that his opinion would fall on deaf ears. "I am obligated to solve this case. We know about his…" Ryuzaki paused, searching for the perfect most suitable word and when he found it, he said, "_special_ ability, and I merely want to use it."

Watari recoiled slightly and opened his mouth to protest, however L spoke first, "I want that transfer Watari…to the Los Angeles Correctional Facility, cell 404 **O**. At least a ten minute window—and if you are sure in your convictions and refuse me…than I shall, and I promise you, to get M or N to do it."

"Than you are positively sure in your conviction?" the old man asked seriously.

Licking his lips L said, "100."

**OOO**

Light Yagami—the soon-to-be God of the New World was _not_ afraid, simply _cautious_ against whatever Ryuzaki was plotting. In the beginning of their cat-and-mouse game, he learned when dealing with L, never to take anything for granted and always remain on guard. Whatever he was doing, it was probably nothing, and besides, as far as Light was concerned, L was already a dead man. A walking corpse that needed a swift kick to laid him in his freshly prepared grave. Besides, why would it matter? In the end, all his laborious works would prove to be hopeless in vain. 

However for a carcass, he proved to be impressively stubborn to just die. Until now, his plan was behaving perfectly and soon L—along with Rem would be dead. Instead of turning his attention to new wave of killings, thanks to Misa-Misa, L was focused on someone else, a prisoner at the Los Angeles Correctional Facility.

_Stupid girl_, Light hissed. _After regaining her memory, she should have already traded for the Shinigami-Eyes, the second time. No._ He paused, trying to control his breathing; otherwise the ever-observant stare of L would surely notice and then make an imminent inquiry. Kira continued angrily, _She wants to try and remember L's true name. Humph. Like she has enough brain cells to remember anything but her name. _

Out of the corner of his eye, he studied L as he spun around in his chair like a bored child in school, anxiously waiting for the recess bell. Faster and faster, he went. Watching it made Light sick to his stomach, and he wondered how could L handle it with a stomach full of sugar. Then again, L had always been weird, but lately he surpassing even himself and his thoughts, which were random and often focused around his sweet-starved stomach—suddenly turned dark and deviant, "_If only I could see the death of the world_."

He smiled politely however his thoughts were anything but friendly, _the end-of-the-world was nowhere close, because the reign of Kira, God of the New World had just scraped the surface. This was only the beginning_. Perhaps, it was more suitable that it might be the end of the old world, a realm of imperfection.

A place that Light Yagami only, would perfect.

Furthermore, what possible threat could this criminal, a former acquaintance of L could bring? _As if_, he said to himself, _as if a criminal could do anything to Kira._

**OOO**

At last, twenty minutes later Watari returned with a grim face and said plainly, "It is done. Warden Gunner Michaels is online, waiting for you. " He took out a handkerchief and patted the sweat glistering on his forehead and upper lips.

L, with his foot pushed off, and rolled on the floor in his swirling chair towards Watari, to establish privacy. "Lovely," he mused, popping a sugar cube in his mouth.

Watari made a poor attempt to smile. "There were some difficulties—

It seems that _he_ is rebellious as ever, and as procure quite a collection of enemies. Inmates have even blessed him with a nickname. A curious and daresay most appropriate nickname, they called him 'Reaper.'"

The genius-detective huffed a short laugh. "Nicely done. Sometimes criminals have very creative minds."

"He killed a prisoner today. Broke his neck. He's in solitude, so as a precaution—you are going to get a mouthful from the Warden," the old man warned.

"Good, now that things are set in order…" L mumbled to himself, and threw himself back into the chair and next to Light Yagami.

"And now to make things official…" Ryuzaki licked his fingertips for the microscopic remains of sugar and jabbed at the keyboard, using alternative hands for each letter or number. Such a method was more suitable for a child who had just adapted the skill, however, despite how puerile it was, L typed with the quickness and accuracy of a professional. A screen popped up with a petite girl, who passionately adapted a "Goth-Lolita" look and had forget-me-not eyes, a round face complete with high smooth cheekbones, tempting pink lips, and of course, a bouncy mass of blond hair—_the_ model and actress named, _Miss Misa-Misa Amane_.

Shinigami-Rem creaked closer with gritting teeth at the violation of privacy and demanded, "Is it customary to spy on those who do not know?"

"Who, me?" he asked innocently.

"Humans, " the creature scoffed under its breath.

"Besides Shinigami-Rem, I am _not_ spying, simply _observing_," he correctly stiffly. Sipping out of a teacup, L jabbed a few buttons and the view shifted to a closer picture, practically staring Misa-Misa in the face. She was wearing baby blue Sponge-Bob pajamas, and like any woman, was multitasking—by reading a Vogue magazine, painting her toenails and attempting sheath by sneaking quick bites of a strawberry-cheese cake, which L had purposefully left behind. Despite her so-called 'diet,' it was relatively easy to persuade Misa-Misa to violate it. In fact, it was _too easy_.

Then Misa-Misa, as if sensing Ryuzaki watching her, crossed her arms and stuck her tongue at him, like a child. She mouthed, "_You 're a pervert!! Pervert! Pervert!!_"

Behind him, the Shinigami grinned, like a proud parent over a child's achievement.

"Difficult…foolish… tiresome girl," L chastised with a sigh.

Looming closer the Death-God demanded sharply, almost in defensive, "What nonsense are you sputtering _human_?"

"Ryuzaki," Light warned.

L explained thickly under his breath, "Like most girls her age, Miss Amane is simply passionate about love—and often _loyalty_ tags along with that…which makes her the ultimate follower to Kira. A disciple for the New World, to which Kira would name himself God."—And in which case, L would be dead— "To Kira, Miss Amane is nothing more than a pawn. And just like a chess game, she is _expendable_."

Looking at the screen displaying Misa-Misa, the Shinigami asked gently almost motherly, "Than you think Kira would kill her."

"_Positive_. 100 certain."

Rem exchanged a murderous look with Light Yagami.

Ryuzaki punched a button and said in the speaker, "Miss Amane, please refrain from making a ruckus. It is embarrassing." Before she could even resume her yelling, L slipped in, "Would you be so kind to join us in the Observation Room, thank you."

There was about minute of measurable silence, and then the demonic groaning of the elevator and _ding_, stepped out the drama queen—along with _Ryuk_ firmly in tow. Of course, the other Shinigami could only be seen by those to have touched the second DeathNote, Miss Amane and Light Yagami. Coming in, Ryuk waved at Light, knowing full well that he could not, even if he wanted to return the gesture. At the sight of him, Rem tightened her teeth. "Okay," she practically shrieked like a banshee. "Misa-Misa was painting her toenails, and now, thanks to you—they are ruined! You better have a good reason to drag Misa-Misa out here."

Ryuk explained, "We were watching an soap-opera. Jae and Shinji were getting physical, if you get my drift. _Hyuk, hyuk_. Watch out Light, it gave Misa-Misa some crazy ideas." **O**

If L could see Ryuk, he certainty would not have smiled and said as casually, "Of course I do, Miss Amane."

"Humph!" she smirked.

Blind to Ryuk, L walked right through him and asked, "How would you like to go out on a date?"

Rem blinked and stuttered, "Wh—what?"

"Hoo hoo!" Ryuk clapped his hands together. "Not only does L have the DeathNote under lock and key, now he's making a move on your gal, Light."

Light flatly refused to acknowledge him.

Misa-Misa giggled. "Are you serious? With you! Not in a million years. Not even if you were the last man on earth. Pervert!" Even as she was ranting and ravening, L was simply beaming with an idiotic, not to mention fake smile that was more suitable for a politician. Perhaps he was saying I-don't-care-about-your-latest-drama. Sometimes it seems that Miss Amane had more hot air than a blue whale taking a drive to the murky blacks depth of the unknown sea. "There's only one man for me, Light."

Ryuzaki rolled his eyes and corrected stiffly, "No. _Not with me_. If it is any consultation Miss Amane, you are not my type, and nor shall you never be."

Whispering Shinigami-Ryuk inquired, "I wonder what his type is, don't you. What do you think, leather or lace…or chocolate whipped-cream? **O** My guess is the last."

Her mouth dropped to the floor and when she couldn't incoherently voice or form a complete insult, the detective continued, "Quite simply, I am offering two tickets to the Sheepish Carnival."

"Really?" she gasped with stars in her eyes.

Then, as if by magic two tickets materialized in his hands and said, "One for you, and the other for your boyfriend, Light Yagami. I hear they have a famous, _Tunnel of Love_."

Ryuk simply could not resist a laugh, "_Ryuk, hulk, hulk_. Prepare for the hackles."

She practically squealed, lunging for the two golden tickets of opportunity—but as always, L was much stronger and faster than he looked. He jumped into the jump and dangled the tickets just out of arm's reach. "Now…I will give these tickets to you—but only one condition."

"I was wrong to think that you a pervert. You are sweet as sugar, Ryuzaki." She wheezed, almost drooling now, "Name it."

"Please bring me back a Monster bag of Cotton Candy."

OOO

Alone with nothing but the murderous DeathNote, his pile of sweet and the glow of the TV screens, L pulled out his cell-phone and held it gently by his fingertips. Sucking on a sugar cube, he placed it near his ear and listened. "Amber…I want you to follow Light Yagami and Miss Amane on their date. Close, but not too close to be noticed"—a pause—"Mom…at the Sheepish Carnival. Watari has an envelop with two tickets. Take Wedy. **O**"—another pause followed—"I regret to say that my presence is needed elsewhere. Nevertheless, I have faith in your ability…and your ability to be discreet."

Finished, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and sat down, stealing a glance or two at the Shinigami.

"Humans, " the creature scoffed under its breath. "Disgusting beings. Why do you look at me so?"

"Good, debatable question," he mused.

Pondering over the question, Ryuzaki took two bottles and squeezed thick swirls of chocolate and caramel on an all already heavily sugared strawberry cheesecake, complete with whipped cream and a long silver spoon. The detective continued as causally as a waitress taking orders in a restaurant, "Recently the Kira-Case has taken a path that is entirely out of scope." Pausing he looked at his work before taking a bite and swallowed. Closing his eyes, which was a rare sight indeed, Ryuzaki savored the rich flavor and continued, "Besides the _paranormal_ does not lie under my expertise, and as I am _very _unlikely to hand this case off, I must gather as much Intel as possible. _Vigilance_ is key."

Rem asked with a hint of surprise, "Then you are not afraid like the _other_ humans?"

Nibbling intently on the spoon Ryuzaki confessed whole-heartedly, "I am simply _intrigued_…"

If possible the Death-God raised a skeptical eyebrow, as if to say that was not an adequate answer. Ryuzaki shrugged his shoulders passively and explained further, "The existence of the Shinigami has always been shrouded in _myth_…an figure molded by _superstition_ and then, further influenced by the collection of _fear _and _doubt_." He paused. "Before now, I have always thought you to be _nothing_ more than fictional—but…here you stand beside me."

With a smile Rem leered, "Than you were proven _wrong_."

"Yes," he nodded grimly almost ashamed by the confession. "Indeed, my calculations were proven wrong."

The Death-God noted, "You sound disappointed at that realization—that you were _wrong_."

"Not at all," the detective confessed. "Much of detective work is trial and error."

Then Ryuzaki pulled his black eyes away, and hunched over the table, shuffling papers by the tips of fingertips and slowly drinking in the vast information like an eternal elixir. He added a fistful of sugar cubes to his already heavily dosed coffee, and stirred the beady contents with a thin long silver spoon. A drink in one hand and some sweets in the other, was L's basic style, and Tout Matsuda with his loud obnoxious mouth had gone far as to say that he was a 'blood hound for sweets." It was probably an accurate description, seeing how when Miss Misa-Misa Amane came in hiding chocolate-covered-strawberries for her date with Light Yagami, Ryuzaki leaped out of his swirl chair and followed her, pestering about what she was hiding and insisting that it needed to be inspected.

"Mmm," he mused talking to him, "now where did I put it? Ah, here it is." Seizing a vanilla folder marked only by the letter "B" in Old English font, the detective opened the folder to a grizzly scene of blood, and murder—although Beyond Birthday would implied that it was not.

"Given the chance…you would deny me of my life, wouldn't you," Ryuzaki said more as a statement than a question.

A short pause of silence lingered afterwards. Shinigami-Rem loomed closer and as its shadow towered over him, it hissed low in his ear like a passing wind, "It is my nature to kill. Think me as a coiled serpent. I attack only when cornered…_Lowliest_…"

The detective looked up at the sound of his name, the last name that Kira—possible Light Yagami—needed for his untimely demise.

Examining his pile of sweets, there was one item that did not exactly belong among the jellybeans, sugar cubes, strawberry cheesecake, donuts chocolate chip cookies, bananas and cupcake drenched in icing—was a red, plump apple. True, one could argue it was fruit, however knowing L's taste; it really didn't fit in. He picked up the apple and tossed it to Rem, who caught it and simply stare at it like it was the living plague. It hissed, "What is this thing?"

"An apple." Confused he asked with his voice wet with curiosity, "Shinigami like apples, don't they?"

"No," the Death-God answered stiffly.

"Really," he exclaimed brightly. "Mmm…how curious."

"What is?"

"When Kira was experimenting with the DeathNote, he had his victims write suicide notes and when I decipher them, it said '_L, did you know that Shinigami love apples_"…knowing that, there's another Shinigami about." He paused, searching the room for the unseen creature. "Probably close." The detective took the silver spoon and another delicious bite of strawberry cheesecake and inquired innocently, "A possible friend of yours, perhaps?"

Rem grinded down on her teeth and snarled, "Shinigami have no friends."

**OOO**

**OOO**

Beyond Birthday will be in the next chapter entitled A Figure of Interest, which I think will be interesting. Fans of Light Yagami, I wanted a segment of his perspective and how arrogant he is. Someone should tell him that pride is a sin.

Author's Notes:

_Death was certain_, however, _its hour was uncertain_ **O**—Yes, the line is from Gankutsuou: the Count of Monte Cristo because it is so true, plus I liked it.

Believe Bridesmaid, Quarter Queen and Backyard Bottomslash **O—**The victims in the Los Angeles BB Murder Case

Los Angeles Correctional Facility, cell 404 **O—**Isn't it ironic that Beyond Birthday is in the same cell as the room number he tried to commit the fourth murder? Yeah, I thought it might be a nice touch.

"We were watching an soap-opera. Jae and Shinji were getting physical, if you get my drift. _Hyuk, hyuk_. Watch out Light, it gave Misa some crazy ideas." **O—**Ryuk enjoys many facets of human entertain, so why not soap operas?

"I wonder what his type is, don't you. What do you think, leather or lace…or chocolate whipped-cream? **O—**I find myself thinking the same thing. I plan on touching—or rather Beyond Birthday, on L's love life or lack thereof…I ship NaomiXL.

Take Wedy. **O**"—Strangely I have this thing for a AiberXWedy pairing.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO 


	3. A Figure of Interest

DEAtHNOtE PLEASE READ

**Disclaimer**—Seeing how the DeathNote universe belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art of Takeshi Obata, I own nothing. _Nothing_. Besides, if I did, L –-(along with Alucard, Hannibal Lector, the Phantom of the opera, Jack Sparrow, Abel Nightroad, Jareth the Goblin King, Aloysius X. L. Pendergast, Gankutsuou and Argent)—would be chained up in my basement.

If you want to, you are more than welcome to join. There's more than enough to go around. If you don't like my selection, by all means bring your own. (winks).

**Title**—GreyWalker

**Synopsis**—Even the dead have their way of making themselves known. 

**Rating**—PG13 to R. Just be mature.

**Chapter Title**—A Figure of Interest 

**Chapter Synopsis**—Desperate for answers, L calls on the special and daresay, unnatural services of his protégé, Beyond Birthday. However, will he be accommodating? 

**A/Ns**—For the stake of argument, just read and review. Originally, I had not intended to use Beyond Birthday in this particular story, but after reading Another Note: Los Angeles BB Murder Case, I was too tempted to resist. Besides, I read some fanfictions where B was later involved with L during the Kira-Case—however they were neither, not written very well or never even finished. So, I want to do it justice.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO A Figure of Interest OOO

Poncho—murderer of twelve, walked into the blazing hot sun, squinting around the cement yard of the Los Angeles Correctional Facility. He remarked in a dull tone, "Home, sweet home." _Or the newest shithole_, he thought,_ at least until parole_.

As the newest addition to the prison, he was wearing the standard bright orange jumpsuit. He stroked the tuft of hair under his chin and his sweaty, shaved head gleamed brightly. Against the desert sand his Latino skin looked golden and lustrous like the precious itself. Lighting up a cigarette, he inhaled the toxic fumes like a rare perfume and then hunched over, his body violated by a series of violent hacks. He spat something undistinguishable and green into the dusty yard and wiped his mouth. _God fucking damn-it, it seems this cold is getting worse and worse, _the criminal cursed, and yet willingly inhaled another breath of thick, smoky fumes.

Five inmates—Raoul, Jose, Eduardo, Stephano and of course, _Coppola_—all loyal members of the SnakeHead gang **O** and related either by marriage or by blood to the Delgado-Drug-Family, greeted him happily. All of his hombres were a welcomed sight, save but one, the _last _one. Chewing on a toothpick his black-eyed half-brother, Coppola forced a smile and greeted, "Wondering when you land yourself in here, _Poncho_. Mama must be so proud of her boys." If it hadn't been for the family relation, Poncho would have killed him years ago, but Drug-Lords should always keep the business in the family. Otherwise, those crazy sons of bitches, the Jamaican Voodoo posse would seize it faster than a speeding bullet. "Been too long."

_Not long enough_. _Not nearly long enough._

"So what got you in here, eh?" Coppola asked with a winkle in his eye.

Blowing smoke out of his hairy nostrils he answered reluctantly, "You know." It was an embarrassing story, and a blush on the Delgado Family. _Fuck_, he cursed. Poncho could handle failure, but not his half-brother rubbing it in his face. So quite simply, he should have known better, _Like grandfather said, 'if it is too good to be true, it is__. _It was going to be the biggest, most profitable deal of cocaine and arms of a lifetime, about 45 million, but it fucked up. Totally fucked up—thanks to some miscommunication, friendly fire and of course, the _F_ucking _B_ristle of _I_diots **O**, the FBI waiting for them. After the bust, Poncho decided to take his share of the profits, after of course, eliminating the _non-related_ competition and escaping to Mexico—but thanks to some hick-ass traffic cop, he was caught. _I'll skin that pig, _Poncho promised.

Slapping him on the back he said, "No one is perfect." Of course, Coppola was smiling. The son of a bitch was here on larceny, a rather trivial crime in the Family and would be released by the end of week. _When the grandfather dies, you die as well brother…_._ even if you are the favorite_.

Sighing he exclaimed with less enthusiasm, "Might as well give you the tour." Then after the tense reunion, they made their daily patrol out in the yard, heading off side by side, and striking the casual fuck-with-me-and-get-stabbed pose. No one was stupid enough to defy the SnakeHeads, and every inmate—old veterans and fresh-fish alike, parted like the Red-Sea and surrender their place for the unofficial kings of the yard. 

Just then, something caught Poncho's eyes and his attention_. _

His butcher blue eyes, cold as ice—thanks to _his_ Caucasian fagot father—dazed lazily in the distance and he grabbed the closest comrade and asked, "_Raoul_, who's Snow-White?" In Poncho's short, and less than amiable dictionary—_Snow-White_, of course was another term for white-boy. Smoking cigarette in hand, he pointed towards the mysterious figure coming out of the depressing yard-entrance—a young man thin and lean like a skeleton with black disheveled hair, sickly pale skin and dark lines under his wide, bulging eyes. Just looking at him Poncho came to the conclusion that he was different.

_Different_, was certainty one-way to put it.

"Him?" his comrade asked hesitantly with a visible swallow.

"Fresh meat for the grinder, eh?" Poncho had simple pleasures—he liked a white boy as his bitch. In fact, young boys were his specialty.

"You don't want him," Eduardo warned. "He's a _freak_."

The labeled "_Freak_," stood on the steps with the hot California sun behind him, stretching his long silhouette on the dusty, chocking baked crust on the yard. It was common knowledge that the prisoners always looked up or out—never back at the grim penitentiary. However, this figure was the single one exception to the rule. Everyone, criminal and guard alike, stopped and followed him with their eyes, and then quickly made their attempt to avoid him. Pretended that he did not exist.

Like the rest of the prisoners, he wore the typical jumpsuit bottoms—however, had contended with the smoldering heat with a white T-shirt, and his bare feet were crammed directly into severely beated sneakers. Despite his youthful appearance, it looked like he had already seen his fair share of violence. Pale thick scars covered half his face and trailed down his arm, to the hand were he was holding a book, a note filled page to page of crossword puzzles. Smiling, he gazed dreamily over the heads of the inhabitants with strange, luminous eyes. One hand in his pocket, he casually made his way towards the one and only set of metal bleachers in the whole yard. And then, like a crowd of ants, the prisoners scattered and thus leaving the prized bench for _his_ taking. Agile as a cat, he climbed his way to the top, and scribbled in his book with a homemade pencil. In addition, he sat very peculiarly. In fact he didn't sit at all, but rather swat with his knees to his chest. Just looking at it, gave Poncho a painful cramp in the thigh, however, the stranger sat nonchalantly, as if it was completely natural. And then, everything in the yard went back to normal.

Perhaps, _freak_ would be an underestimation.

"Nothing wrong with freaks." Hacking on the smoke, Poncho licked his lips and cleared his throat. _Again, this fucking cold_. _Money says allergies_. "A _freak_ might be tasty. Fifty-dollar hookers just don't do it anymore. Time to branch out."

"Poncho, there's plenty of other fresh-meat," Eduardo offered, pointing a finger towards the "freshies," first-time prisoners who were completely ignorant of the picking order, and how easily they stuck out like a sore thumb.

Walking towards him Poncho asked, evermore intrigued at the air of mystery surrounding this grim figure. "What's his story, boys?"

"That's the point—_no one knows_," José, the youngest of the SnakeHead gang answered. It was evident that the prisoners from the SnakeHead gang avoided him like the plague, and thus tried to entice Poncho to follow by example. "It's kind of funny, you know. Been here seen 2002 **O**. Nobody got nothing on him. Not even the Warden. No name…no crime," he added stiffly with stiffing eyes, "on public record at least, no visitors and no file. Just _nothing_, Poncho. Ain't that weird?"

_Yeah…it is_, Poncho thought, _because everybody has a history, even this Freak_.   "But," he challenged and demanded too eagerly, "You have to call him something."

Now, everyone was reluctant to answer.

Calm and collective as always, Coppola stopped chewing on a toothpick and said plain as day, "Inmates call him "Reaper." **O**

"As in _Grim Reaper_?" Choking on a cough, Poncho asked, "Why _that _nickname?" –Now, everyone exchanged glances and waited for someone to answer that question—_What is this shit, _Poncho wondered_. He ain't the Boogeyman. _

Eduardo swallowed nervously and explained as earnest as he could, "_Reaper_…because somehow…it seems he knows when people are going to die. Knows the day and the exact time."

"You superstitious bastards," Poncho chastised with a throaty rasp. _No one can do that_.

Looking up, he saw the Freak staring directly at him.

_Holy shit! Why is he looking at me like that_, Poncho choked breathlessness.

His eyes were different, very different—Poncho could have sworn on the Virgin-Mother that they contained the slight hue of maroon, like a ruby-stone. They traveled upwards, above a spot just above his head, and seeing something that caused him much joy, he smiled. And then laughed. A harsh, cruel laugh, but an unnatural laugh. As if laughing was a new skill that he was simply experimenting and refining. "Ha ha ha! No…" he paused and continued, "No, that's not right…I should laugh more like this—_Kya ha ha_! **O **Wouldn't you say?" he asked to no one in specific.

_No one laughs like that_.

Laughing wildly, Reaper leaped out of his swatting pose and down the metal bleacher, and hooked a hand in the chain-link and simply waited, as if to say I-made-it-halfway-now-its-your-turn. _Two can play that game_, mused Poncho with a nasty smile.

"No, Poncho. Don't!"

"Shut up," he raged, ripping his arm free.

Discarding his toothpick Coppola yelled, "Poncho you fuck, get back here."

Rolling his eyes, Poncho was half-tempted to punch him in the gullet, so instead he ejected some foul smelling phlegm towards him and on his shoe. "Coppola, shut the fuck up." Coppola, the esteemed grandson was the reason why the Delgado-Family never ventured far beyond Los Angeles, because he was afraid of going outside the box. Nothing was special about, other than the fact that he was _full_ Latino and _legitimate_—and Poncho was not. No, he was a bastard, and the result of mama whoring around with some hick-ass, white punk. Still, half of him was a Delgado and therefore had a short-lived tolerance and a hot tempter. Practically foaming at the mouth he growled, "I am not going to hurt the Freak, just talk. Besides, I like my meat only tenderized."

Shaking his head Coppola replied earnestly, "No one is worry about _you_ hurting _him_."

Reaching the strange prisoner Poncho measured him up, finding him to be lean and small—just the way he preferred them. Leaning against the fence he attempted small chitchat by asking, "Want a cigarette, pretty-boy?"

Questioning a prisoner's masculinity was the easiest way to get someone to do something stupid, like get into a fight. A fight that ended with a stank in the belly or some bodily appendage in an orifice. Unmoved by the challenge, the Freak answered point-blank, "Afraid not."

"No smokes." Poncho smirked doubtfully, knowing that smoking was one of the few freedoms in prison and a habit everyone, sooner or later picked up on. He taunted with a hungry wolf smile, "Why ever not?"

"Smoking shortens the numbers **O**," he answered, still with his eyes staring at Poncho…or again, more like the spot just above his head. 

_Dio, this guy is weird. Seriously weird_, Delgado said to himself. Confused he demanded, "_Numbers_? What fucking numbers? What the _fuck_ are you taking about?"

"The _numbers_ come from the clock, you know. Tick tock," the prisoner explained, making as much sense as he did before—none. Oblivious as always, Poncho did not sense that the prisoner had murderous intentions towards him. However, it was evident in the tone of his speak, in the trickle of malice that lay so faintly in his words. It was in the glint of his dark eyes and the shadows of malevolence that lurked in their depths…"You really should have stopped smoking years ago—_Terrance Martin Delgado._"

Stuttering Poncho exclaimed, "What—what did—did you say?"

Nibbling on his thumb he said kindly as if confront a friend who had suffered a lost, "Quite simply, I said your name, _Terrance_."

Boiling mad Poncho hissed, "That is _not_ my name, bitch."

"Yes it is, Terrance." Shaking his head, the Freak smiled and corrected, "_Poncho_ is the name you gave yourself."

_What the hell_, thought Poncho. _No one knows that_. Not even Coppola, so how did this Freak know that? Poncho hissed, "You _are_ a fucking freak."

He winked playfully at him and said, "And that's just the beginning of it, Terrance."

Then, slowly he started to recall what the SnakeHead gang told him about his prisoner. Just because he ignored it, it didn't mean that forgot it. A Delgado never forgot anything no matter how seemingly trivial. Those yellow-bellied bastards told him things that just wasn't possible—An inmate with no name and no file, and someone who could tell the exact day and time of your death—and now it seems, he knew your name just by looking at you. Still with all the support lying plain before him, Poncho was skeptical. If anything, he was a perfect replication of doubting Thomas. He wondered, _What did they call him, again._

"Reaper, is it?" he asked with a sneer that exposed a row of heavily stained teeth.

"That is what people here seem fit to call me," he replied indifferently, and with an impassive shrug.

"So, am I going to die?" he asked sarcastically.

Flashing a crooked smile he nodded and then explained, "We all die…_but_ your numbers are dwindling so terribly _low_…"

As the last word escaped his lips, Poncho coughed, hacking his throat clear and when he removed his hand, fresh blood decorated his palm like confetti. Eyes growing wide, his mouth quivered with the thick taste of copper pennies on his tongue. Soon he found himself desperately trying to catch every damnable breath. His lungs ached, thirsty for crisp sweet air. Knees buckling, he fell to the sandy ground and crawled his hands towards the prisoner, Reaper. _No_, he wheezed, _it isn't possible. _"No," choking he said, "You—you can't—can't _know _that."

Reaper easily dodged him and as agile as a cat stalking a wounded mouse, he inched his way around, circling him. He watched his theatrics with a faint smile. Hands behind his back, he loomed over him apparently watching the so-called clock counting down to zero.

"What—what are—are you, Freak," Poncho sputtered with his face turning blue. "Why can you…"

"It is my _nature_," he hissed with pride, and a smile. Wrapping an arm around his neck the prisoner spoke huskily against his earlobe, "By the way Terrance… my name isn't really Reaper. Would you like to know? It shall be my gift to you, a parting farewell." He paused and then whispered in a gentle, almost lovingly voice, "It is _Beyond Birthday_."

Poncho's scream got whisked away by the passing wind.

OOO

Fear was like honey, sickly sweet and simply intoxicating—but furthermore it was _power_.

Beyond Birthday—ever since the first day of his incarnation, had never liked associating with the other inmates of the Los Angeles Correctional Facility. In fact, he avoided socializing with the human race all together, because quite simply, he never saw himself as a member of humanity. **O**

_No_, he said to himself, _I am something slightly different._

Watari—_Quillsh Wammy_, corrected Beyond—when Watari found him as the _second_ child at the Wammy House, the old man could not place him in the correct, and proper category, so he placed in X, which ironically turned out to be the same as L's. And thus that was the mere beginning of their game. _However, that is a entirely different story_, Beyond noted grimly. _Better to save that for another monologue_.

Returning to the original discussion, B—or B.B never liked socializing with his fellow inmates. However, begin smaller, thinner and still injured was not a good combination in a metal cage where criminals roamed free. It was quite simply like walking around with a large target sign painted on your back and front.

Beyond only initiated contact among them as a basic plan of prison survival. So the moment a notorious rapist ran dangerous low on his numbers, B took advantage, killing him. More preciously, he gouged his eyes out by plugging his thumbs into the sockets and pressing down until he heard a sick, wet crunch. That was just the beginning, he smashed the man's face into the metal bars until it was an unrecognizable pulp of skull and ragged, bruised flesh. Afterwards, the rapist's family needed a closed casket. Once the grueling struggle was done, the scene looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Blood decorated the walls like confetti and even today, remains still lingered on the walls despite the fervid and desperate attempts of the janitor. Sure, the killing was necessary, but that is not to say that Beyond didn't like it. No, he enjoyed the extra distraction. Smiling Beyond considered, _Yes, such a nice diversion_.

Plus, it gave him _power_.

And ever since then, Beyond Birthday was officially branded a _Freak,_ who undermined any inmate that had ever graced the Los Angeles Correctional Facility. He was quite simply, a psychopath among psychopaths. Deep in thought he noticed ironically, _Again, in my own separate category—however, here there is no L to content with here…_Somehow, that made it less fun. Even with the nasty and rather messily result of the Los Angeles BB Murder Case, it was _disappointing_. Disappointing that there was no L here.

_However, again let's not talk about the civil war at the Wammy House between L and myself. That is less than amiable story_, Beyond said, deciding to change the subject. 

Continuing, after the prison incident Beyond was blessed with his nickname—Reaper.

_That was a nice touch_, Beyond mused with a twinkle in eye, _and completely unsuspected._

The new guard named Gerry Fecteau mumbled, "I guess that's another notch Reaper can add to his stick."

After the tussle in the yard, Beyond was being escorted by a flock of heavily armed guards, who were taking him that all-too-familiar path to Solitary.

Someone whispered, "Sounds like you admirer this fucker."

Stuttering Fecteau redeemed himself by saying, "No—no—that's not—not I mean. No, not—not at all. It's just—just he reminds me of _Kira_. Killing criminals and all, you know."

"Kira is in Japan," a guard corrected sharply.

_That was quite possible, about 98,_ Beyond concluded, especially after L's private presentation-involving Lind. L. Taylor, which of course Beyond was not permitted to see, but heard much from the prisoners and read from the newspapers.

"_He's_ a murderer nonetheless," the guard reminded.

Beyond wondered, _who is the murderer—Kira, myself, or perhaps even both of us?_

With a harsh nudge in the back, a guard hissed with spit glistering his chin, "Get moving."

One look at him told Beyond his name—Edward Coffey.

_Ah him_, he noted grimly. _Who else would be escorting me?_

Practically foaming at the mouth he growled, "You know protocol. _Eyes forward_."

Refusing the direct order, he was blessed with a sharp, forceful jab to the head. A flash of light momentarily blinded him. Lifting his cuffed-hands, he felt warm sticky blood oozing down his forehead like his personal miniature river of life. _Ah_, Beyond moaned, _blood, what an perfect elixir_. Blood is the color of a priceless ruby and thicker than water, and yet within it carried everything. Everything! From nutrients and wastes, to the genetic blueprint and quite possible, the soul. Rudely interrupting his reflection Coffey screamed, "I said turn around!"

Nodding he said gentlemanlike, "Yes, Office Coffey."

Grinning, Beyond knew that the guards assigned in Section B did not have nametags like the rest. Warden Gunner Michaels didn't want to encourage any bad behavior, or namely _him_ causing it by spilling names and deathdates to people, like criminals, guards and even visitors. _Humph_, he smirked, _as if that feeble attempt could somehow hinder my sight_.

"I really don't need your company, I can find it myself," he said wholeheartedly.

Solitary was his punishment for disturbing the peace, and no punishment was more to his liking than quiet and isolation.

"Funny," Coffey smirked. "Just shut your mouth and walk. My lunch-break is after this."

"Your wife's cooking?" he inquired innocently.

Next to his sight, Beyond had an extraordinarily sense of smell. Oddly, he looked forward to new prisoners—or "freshies," because of the assortment of odors they brought with them. Coffey always smelled of greasy food, compliments from his sweet gap-tooth wife, Maisie-Sally. _Poor, stupid, good-hearted and innocent girl_. Despite her husband's work and ghastly tales involving rape, arson and murder, Maisie-Sally never thought ill of anyone. Once Maisie volunteered at the Los Angeles Correctional Facility's cafeteria during Thanksgiving and worked up some of her recipes, which were pleasing to the taste but atrocious in the inner workings of the bowel **O**. But, she did make the best chocolate-chip cookies. However, she quit after her encounter with Beyond Birthday who passed her some lifesaving advice. Clutching her Christian cross, she walked straight out with a grim look in her crystal blue eyes, and ever since then, Coffey had declared war on Beyond.

Reaching solitary Coffey hissed, "In you go, animal."

Beyond went willingly inside the patted cell and sat down, leaning his back against the padded walls. _My miniature haven_, he thought.

About to slam the door shut, Coffey was interrupted. "Wait one moment," came the rustic voice of the Warden. "Been a change of plans."

Warden Gunner Michaels was an older man, who had many more years to live yet. He had salt and pepper hair that was quickly falling down the shower drain, and deep-seated wrinkles around his hard eyes and tight-lipped mouth. The man wore the same style of clothes—a dull gray tweed jacket, thin blue strip collar suit, cowboy hat and a plain black tie—in fact, he wore it so often that sometimes it seemed he never did change. The Warden was a plain, typical guy with a simple pleasure, _peace_.

Regrettably, peace was something Beyond Birthday had a terrible hack to upset. So it was safe to say, they weren't friendly.

"A slight change in plan, " he repeated.

Flushing with anger Coffey asked, "Whatever are you talking about, _sir_?"

"Prisoner will remain in isolation—but he will be given one object." –

_Solitary_ meant complete isolation—no windows, little to none light, no objects save but the clothes he was wearing. –"As requested."

Curious Fecteau asked, "By who Warden?"

_Oh, indeed by whom?_ Beyond wondered.

Standing bleakly at the door, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief and carefully, almost delicately folded it and placed in his chest pocket. Chewing vigorous on his tobacco, the Warden spoke out of the corner of his mouth, "Seems like you have an admirer, Reaper."

"Imagine that," Beyond said stoically.

"Your _first _visitor, it seems."

"What a joy…" he said yet again with the same measure of excitement.

The Warden couched down, and Beyond could hear the fainting popping sounds in his knees. "Someone pulled some _serious_ strings. I am your babysitter, and not even I have assess to your name and file. And yet this," he paused catching his breath, "this _man _knows you. Intimately it seems." A sigh escaped the man.

_A visitor who knows me, Warden you have my attention_.

"I will always have more questions than answers when involving you, Reaper." Reaching behind him, a black labtop appeared in his hands and he set it on the floor with the utmost care. "You have ten minutes. Starting now." And then, the Warden and Coffey included left him in the padded cell with nothing but his sanity and a laptop as a correction to the outside world, beyond the bars, fences and the merciless desert. Beyond peered at the labtop, as a tingling all-to-familiar sense crawled up his spine. The black screen disappeared revealing a letter, Old English font—as L.

He huffed out a short bitter laugh. "Don't hide behind that grotesque letter, my old _friend_," he hissed out in a rich deep voice, and then finished hastily, "We both know that I have already seen your face…and furthermore, _your name_."

Immediate the screen changed, revealing the man behind the letter—L.

TBC

FootNotes:

_F_ucking _B_ristle of _I_diots **O**—or the FBI. I actually stole this from a Hannibal (Lector) fanfiction that I read forever-and-half-ago, and I cannot remember the name or the wonderful author. Anyways, thanks for the great line.

_SnakeHead gang_ **O—**I couldn't think of a cool Latino name for a gang, and then I watched CSI: Las Vegas and it popped inside my mind.

_Been here seen 2002_ **O—**Beyond Birthday was arrested by Naomi Misora on 08-22-2002.

_Reaper_ **O—**You know that is a perfect nickname for Beyond Birthday.

_Ha ha ha! No…" he paused and continued, "No, that's not right…I should laugh more like this—Kya ha ha_! **O—**Okay, when I read Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases, which I recommend, I was floored by his laugh. You would think that by now he would have gotten it right, or at least half-right.

_Smoking shortens the numbers **O**_—I figure that we all are born with an expected lifespan, but it is our actions—anything but a DeathNote, that eventually shortens them. It was said somewhere that each puff of a cigarette shortens your life by so many seconds. Poncho really should have listened in health-class.

_In fact, he avoided socializing with the human race all together, because quite simply, he never saw himself as a member of humanity._ **O**—Sometimes I feel like this, don't you?

_Were pleasing to the taste but atrocious in the inner workings of the bowel_ **O**—ever eat food like this, everyone has. It taste so delicious, but it just doesn't work with the insides.

P.S I have been thinking about writing the scene where Beyond goes postal on that rapist, so let me know if you are interested.

Ta,

Immortalis


	4. Speculations and Truths

DEAtHNOtEPLEASE READ

**Disclaimer**—Seeing how the DeathNote universe belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art of Takeshi Obata, I own nothing. _Nothing_. Besides, if I did, L –-(along with Alucard, Hannibal Lector, the Phantom of the opera, Jack Sparrow, Abel Nightroad, Jareth the Goblin King, Aloysius X. L. Pendergast, Gankutsuou and Argent)—would be chained up in my basement.

**Title**—GreyWalker

**Synopsis**—Even the dead have their way of making themselves known.

**Rating**—PG13 to R. Just be mature.

**Chapter Title**—Speculations and Truths

**Chapter Synopsis**—Mind against mind, L and Beyond exchange ideas—however like always, there is a price for the truth. Care to pay your fair share?

**A/N**—Sorry, that an update took so dreadfully long—but I am a full time nursing student and that said, I think that more than explains my absence. As you will soon tell, with the beginning of each chapter, I like to touch-up on what happened just previously. Just a reminder and perhaps, an embellishment.

OOO

Over all, _Life_ can be such a bore—especially seeing how we spend a majority of our expendable existence either sleeping, or _waiting_ for something to happen. Occasionally life had it perks, like strawberry-jam. Plus, sometimes it could be unpredictable, which always added an ounce of excitement to otherwise dull day. A perfect example was the change of events at the Los Angeles Correctional Facility. _Nothing like murder to cause chaos_, Beyond Birthday mused with half-closed eyes, but then he corrected himself, _Really not really murder, just a death_.

It was not a murder, because the guy was already due—and Beyond merely eased his passing from this world into the next. Just like an angel of death.

First, it had just been an average day—with breakfast of lukewarm water-down oatmeal, looming in his cell with a day-old newspaper, crowded showers with shifting wondering eyes, crosswords in the desert yard, leftovers in the evening and then sleep, interrupted with whispers, dreamy moans and the occasional blunt screams. Quite simply, prison-life was one of day-in-and-day-out routine. If it weren't for the incoming freshies, ruckus and mysterious shanking, inmates would go mad with boredom. They would be _dying_ for something to do.

For Beyond Birthday, Poncho—or _Terrance Martin Delgado,_ served as nothing more than a humble diversion, and of course, a chance to reinforce his prowess as "Reaper," as his fellow inmates so appropriately named him. Plus, it rewarded him with a week in Solitary with the dreamy padded-walls. Now, it seemed that wasn't the end of things, and there was one more surprise yet to be opened. B.B., once a prized and promising protégé of the Wammy House, now turned murderer, peered at the laptop as an all-to-familiar sense crawled up his spine and lingered deep in his belly. Coming to life, the black screen disappeared and revealed a letter, Old English font—L. Despite its simplicity, it seemed to hold much more meaning to the prisoner locked in Solitary, than just being a letter in the English language.

His voice carried a strong mixture of calm and anger, "Don't hide behind that grotesque letter, my old _friend_," and then he finished, "We both know that I have already seen your face…and furthermore, _your name_."

OOO

"Yes, of course," the artificial voiced mused.

On the other side of the screen, across the Pacific ocean and on the other half of the world, L smiled grimly and took a sip of his sickly sweet coffee-tea, complete with the traditional 13 lumps of sugar and long silver spoon. Couching in the chair, he realized how redundant it was to hide himself, and play this pointless and faceless charade. Now, what did it matter, especially seeing how they had already met _face-to-face_ in the small jailhouse, just outside the skirts of Los Angeles? From that point, Beyond had seen his name, his _true_ given name, and probably burned into his brain—and _if_ he had the _eyes of a Shinigami_—than he knew the day L was _destined to die_.

And more importantly, perhaps he could see who Kira was…

Speaking about death, it made L wondered if he did not have other purpose for calling on B. Maybe, and just maybe he had a _hidden_, personal agenda—next to the one was already plotting. Lately the concept of death had been picking at his brain, and somehow the detective felt that things were already set in motion to plot his demise, and it would _not_ be at the hands of Kira, but rather at his manipulation. True Kira—whoever he was, Light Yagami or not—would love to have the satisfaction of writing his name down, but there would be much more pleasure watching him die. Perhaps, unconsciously he wanted to know _when_ he was going to do, if it would today, or tomorrow or even years down the road. And that answer was sitting before him and even now, through the black seemingly endless screen, L could feel those strange luminous eyes piercing through him. Cutting deep like a knife. Burying themselves just under his skin.

Staring at the screen, L wondered if he was making a mistake—however, it was too late for regrets now.

"Fair enough. Seeing how we are beyond pretences now," was his reply, and his voice was unnaturally calm in the presence of a murderer. Perhaps, it was more appropriate to say that the genius-detective was having a casual tête-à-tête with a friend, than an interrogation. From past experiences, _respect_ went further than _hostility_.

And then, after years of hiding behind a screen, L reached out, and striking a single key lowered the defense of mystery and revealed the man behind the letter, L Lawliet.

_L Lawliet_, yes he was the mysterious genius detective who could solve any case, no matter how seemingly impossible. He was the chosen and foremost, the _first_ protégé-son of Quillsh Wammy, but at _first_ glance, L certainty did _not_ look like a super-genius and that was something he heard quite often. Perhaps, _freak_ would be a more accurate description. To the untrained eye, L looked like an awkward, uncomfortable man who couldn't get suited in his own skin. Or better yet, he just had a few loose screws and mismatched wires upstairs. Any yet, despite all his major accomplishments and age, L had the demeanor of a child. To explain, he exhibited curiosity, blissful ignorance, was very active and had a competitive edge that simply hated to lose, no matter what the cost. Not only did L act in a questioning manner, but looked odd enough to make you look twice at him, and then ignore him. Who knows how many people had actually seen L, and if they realized that they had met him face-to-face, they would not laughed or cringed at his poor posture. However, L could never afford to be known for who he actually was, as _L_.

Truth be known, he could never remember a time when he was _not_ L. True he could assume the names of Eraldo Coil, Danuve, Ryuzaki or Ryuga Hideki—but in the end, he was the same person. He was still the world's greatest detective L—_L Lawliet_.

Secretly, L grew tired of the alien isolation and longed for some human contract beyond the letter on a computer screen. Then again, L could always retire when he was dead. Cringing at these morbid thoughts, he reluctantly turned his attention and dead eyes towards B—the second child of the Wammy's House, and more specifically, his personal doppelganger.

"Ah," he said, finally noticing how well his body managed after third degree burns, "it seems you have recovered nicely. Beginning to look like yourself again." Yes, all things considering, prison had been good to him—by putting some meat on his bones, his hair was longer almost reaching his collarbone and judging by that grin, he was having a jolly good time.

Tracing the thick bubbling scars Beyond joked, "Thanks to the miracle of plastic surgery." Smirking, B cracked his neck with a sickening pop. He grinned like a _madman_, a title that psychology deemed him worthy to carry, and no doubt he carried the title with a sense of swelling pride. Of course, B never saw himself as being just _human_, and having the label of _sociopath_ made that belief more probable.

L would not be surprised if Beyond Birthday saw himself as being a Shinigami.

"_Well_…_well_, this is quite the surprise…" Again, those strange luminous eyes pierced at him like two daggers searching for a vital organ to penetrate. Then the smile melted off his face and he added evenly, "And a _disappointment_. No word from you in two years, not even a birthday card. No phone call." He finished with a crooked hillbilly smile, "Anyways, here you are. Perhaps not '_in the flesh' _as the saying goes, but _here_ nonetheless, wouldn't you say?"

"Funny how things turn out," L replied politely with a reluctant—but polite smile.

He licked his lips like a hungry wolf, and asked a bit too eagerly, "Speaking of _turns_, how are things _turning _out on the Kira-Case? By the way, nice touch with the dramatic demise of _Lind L. Taylor_. Read about in the New York Times. Bold move, only you would think about something like that."

Popping a sugar cube into his mouth, L said as plainly and as vaguely as possible, "Things are proceeding forward."

"Really?" Sitting back, he blinked and required with a playfully smile, "Is that why you are calling me?"

Looking up at the ceiling, L weighted his next words carefully and then decided to just plainly say, "Yes." A short pause followed. "And _that_ is the motivation to my visit. To put it simply, I am inquiring after your _opinion_."

Beyond mocked, "What, me and my powers of acute observation?"

Well, that was certainty one way to put it.

"Precisely." Exhaling a sigh, L gnawed on his thumbnail and mumbled, "I just need your _eyes_."

_Your Shinigami-Eyes_…

"Why the sudden change of heart? Socializing with the likes of me? Perhaps you are here to _gloat_," Beyond Birthday hissed with equal malice that matched the intensity of his eyes. "Beyond Birthday is nothing more than an expendable asset, and always second place to the best, the L Lawliet."

L shook his head innocently. "Not at all." Pausing he looked up and the light only exaggerated the lines under his bulging eyes. They were so dark, people wondered if they actually done in makeup. It was like he hadn't slept a wink in days—no, like hadn't slept a day since he was squeezed out in the world. L had heard that some believed it was because of his prevailing and endless sense of justice, which could not permit him sleep. All things considering, it might as well be a fair description.

Never before that L had been so intimately or so obsessively involved in a case, as of that of the Los Angeles BB Murder Case. He refused to assigned himself to case unless there were than ten victims or a million dollars at sake—otherwise every case would itself piled on his desk, and despite his genius, L was still human and only capable of doing so much. But, the Los Angeles BB Murder Case was neither of these. It was _personal_.

The killer was challenging the man he copied, the century's greatest detective, L.

The Wammy House was quite simply an orphanage that produced geniuses, prodigy-children gifted in investigation and the arts. The only reason it was created was because when Qullish Wammy/ or Watari found L, and saw his boundless and incredible talents from the perspective of an inventor—he wanted to perverse it and create a _copy_. Or more specifically, a _backup_. The Wammy-family, mostly orphans were successors, or L's _alternatives_. Even for Watari, creating a fake L was easier said than done—because the more you became like L, the further he was. It was like chasing a mirage. The first child, A, was unable to keep up with the demands of measuring up next to L, and took his own life thanks to a swinging rope. But things turn promising with the second child, BB or _Beyond Birthday_.

When B first came in to the Wammy House, Watari felt that he was as different and as unique as L, and the genius-detective felt the same. But despite of the fact that Beyond Birthday would be his unofficial heir, he had nothing to do with him. Never even met him—but instead, he was simply aware of him.

B stood for backup.

Still, there was no denying Beyond Birthday of his genius and his unusual quirks—and would have a perfect, not to mention a convincing L save but one detail, he tried to a surpass L, not become him. B was naturally competitive, and second place never tasted as good as claiming the prize. Of course, finding out as the first-generation-child, he was nothing more than an _experiment_, and thus expected to fail—that notion spurred him into a frenzy. Through bitterness or admiration, Beyond molded himself after L, so much so in appearance and mannerisms that he could fool everyone, including Watari. It was playful at first, and then it grew into a full-blown addiction.

He was L's doppelganger. Nevertheless, that was Beyond Birthday. Childish. Arrogant. Competitive. Just like his creator; just like L.

But, he would _never _be L.

And so, he came to one logical explanation: "For as long as there was L, B would never be L. As long as the original existed, the copy was nothing more than a copy, and expendable."

And thus the killing sprees began: the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases.

L could solve any case, no matter how impossible or difficult—however, if Beyond Birthday could create a case so challenging that no one, including L could solve it, than B would have defeated L. The copy would surpass the original.

The Los Angeles BB murder case literally meant L.A.B.B, or _L is After Beyond birthday. _

However, regardless of how careful and finicky he was, B lost.

Losing the Wammy House civil-war, did serve one positive purpose—B finally met L, face-to-face. And upon meeting him, saw his name and his deathday.

Draining his cup dry L licked his thin lips and said, ""Regardless of your incarceration and mental state—you are as brilliant as you are deviant. It would be such a shame to waste it, wouldn't you agree Beyond?"

At once Beyond burst into laughter, "Ha ha ha—no, it should be like this, Ke ka ha ha. Oh, this is _precious_. I don't remember you being such a _sentimental_ sort of guy—" Chuckling, B fished around in his jumpsuit and pulled out a packet of cigarettes that he snatched off Poncho's cooling, dead body. Dangling one off his lips, he lit it and inhaled the cancerous fumes and could practically feel the seconds draining from his clock. Smoking dancing from his nostrils he added dryly with a wisp of acid-smoke, "But if you are looking for comfort, you may abandon it. _I am what I am_."

L noted with a spark of interest," Smoking is terribly unhealthy, you know."

"Believe me, I can _see_ that," he said, laughing at his own personal joke. "But—it _is_ a different currency inside these walls. Basically, cancersticks and warm flesh."

Yes, it was a different set of economics inside prison-walls. Cigarettes and warm flesh were the main currency in prison, and since B certainty wasn't up to be selling the second, he settled with the latter. Despite Solitary protocol, L predicted that B was able to smuggle them in, simply because no one especially the correctional officers would be fond of touching, or feeling up another man's groin. Perhaps, he would pawn off the cancersticks in exchange for his favorite dish, Strawberry Jam straight out of the jar.

"So, you want _my_ help, but why should I help you?" Beyond asked very business-like. "Sounds like Kira needs an applause, seeing how he is making your job much easier. Crime rate is an all time low."

L violently shook his head, and wagged his finger at him as if scolding a child. He chastised with a firm tone, "No. He is a murderer. There are _no _partners in Kira's chess game, only _pawns and victims_. If I die, you'll soon follow me—and everyone at the Wammy House." He paused allowing Beyond to digest his words. Heaving out a long sigh, he nibbled on his thumb with his ebony-black eyes glazing upwards at ceiling. Perhaps, he wondered other eyes were watching him, other Shinigami eyes. Returning to the business at hand L offered, "This is a one time opportunity and expires at the end of this visit. In exchange for your cooperation, I will reduce your sentence by 10 years. You will have reasonable permission to books, and possible computer access," L added, "all under supervision, of course."

"All that sounds nice," the murderer added, "but, you haven't explained, _why me_? Surely Mello could help you. Or even Near?"

He shook his head. "Not for what I am about to ask. This is fitting only for _you_."

"I feel as though is something you're not telling me," B noted with a stretching grin.

"You know, I find nothing more useless, or as tiresome as explanations," he explained.

Nodding his head, Beyond smirked and replied, "Yes, you like to keep people in the dark."

He replied in a low whisper, "Ever since the Los Angeles BB murder case, something has been _brothering_ me. It wasn't what you did—but rather, _what you said_." As others openly remarked, his obsidian orbs were cold as the depths of space and even lifeless. They were so uncommonly black that all the light—florescent and daylight seemed to fly into their endless embrace, never to return again. **O** While investigating a case, L was reduced into nothing more than an abstract gaze, forever observing and forever watching. Sometimes, it seemed that his body was a fleshy disguise in which to harbor those insomniac-ridden eyes. But now, he found himself defiantly staring down at those strange luminous eyes. Those _Shinigami-Eyes_. "It was something you said. You said that you weren't guilty of your crimes. Said that, even if you hadn't killed them, they were bound to die anyways. They were fated to die that day, and for some reason, logically or morally, their deaths were unavoidable. Beyond, you said that the numbers were dwindling low."

Beyond smiled innocently and confessed, "I say a lot of things. Might have been the morphine talking. Third degree burns make you irrational."

His ebony black eyes like coffee grinds and held as much warmth as his words, "No, you can see the names of anyone you met, as well as the day they are presume to expire—their _deathday_."

Hearing this, L watched the smoking cigarette hang limply from B's gaping lips.

"Killing people who were fated to die is no effort at all—not for _you_, especially if you could see when they were going to die."

Beyond cracked his neck with a sickening pop, and with his head hanging at an old angle, looked at the wall with a venomous glare. Then, his features softened after a long drag from his cancerstick and the smoke leaked out of his nostrils. Putting his fingertips together he replied delicately and reluctantly between tightly clenched teeth, "You have my attention, L."

"And your _cooperation_?" L asked eagerly, leaning towards the screen.

B inhaled sharply and said, "For the duration of this visit. Not a moment longer."

"Excellent! Than shall we get started? I imagine with the lack of stimulus," Popping a sugar-cube into his mouth L mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, "your talents might be a bit rusty…so shall we start with a simple exercise?"

His smile, said he was more than ready.

Swallowing L asked nonchalantly, "Beyond, what do you know about Kira?"

Smoke leaked out of his nostrils like a dragon and he said as plainly as possible, "_Regrettably_ I can only speculate. Seeing how my resources are severely limited. I hear about it, here and there, from the so-dramatic news, and the occasional gossip. The inmates here practically piss in their jumpsuits at the very mention of the name."

L demanded eagerly, "And what have you personally concluded?"

"He's playing God…" the murderer concluded with conviction.

"And?" L prompted.

Sucking on the cancerstick Beyond said, "L, are you asking me to profile? You know that is more an art, than an actual science."

"No," L corrected simply, "You are a Chameleon, so get in Kira's skin."

Beyond Birthday was what the Wammy House called a _Chameleon_; and basically just like the reptile he was able to blend in anything, especially as someone else. Sometimes, and more than often his performances were convincing enough to fool friends and family of the intended 'original.' Of course, prosthetics and makeup created wonders. A majority of the times B.B. never even met them face-to-face, and only required a few personal items to sink down into their character. Often he would gloat, "It's all in the little details," and like evidence to a case, it was small, seemingly insignificant details that said everything. He was proficient masquerader, and took great, sickening pleasure-dissecting personas like an artist clipping away at marble sculpture. Or perhaps a better illustration was a mad-scientist slicing and dicing a specimen. However, as said before he took his ability to a frightening new level during the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases—as Beyond Birthday started to dismember and scrutinize L himself.

As much as L hated to admit, his analysis—save but his own creditable madness, was frightening accurate.

With black opaque eyes, L watched Beyond closed his eyes as he slipped into nothingness, a black void. Basically, creating a blank slate. A full minute passed and when Beyond opened his mouth a different voice slipped out, the voice-box of Kira, "I have a strong, unfathomable sense of justice…male…young, probably a teenager or in early 20's. Despite my age, I am intelligent. Top quarter of my class. Excellent social skills, and thus a perfected manipulator. Very creative. The world should be a better place. Everyone is going to know that I am here…that somebody is passing judgment on the wicked—a _God_." He added more forcefully, "No—I am God!"

Apparently, B had not lost his touch. L himself had come up with similar conclusions but hearing this from B made his convictions more concrete—that Kira wants to create an absolute dictatorship and name himself the monarchy. Anyone, and absolutely _anyone_ who resisted was his enemy, and such a crime in his eyes, was punishable by death. As evidence in history, absolute tyrants never worked. People go mad with power and eventually society crumbles into dust, leaving behind shadows of a decadent past. Like a cycle, a revolution of new ideas would come, and the world would be back to square one and Kira would be nothing more than a chapter in a history book.

"Well," B asked with a gloating grin, "how did I do? Did I pass?"

L nodded, "With flying colors. What about the Second Kira?"

Beyond scoffed, "Probably a fangirl. Definitely female. Completely loyal, and the submissive type. But enough about that—Honestly L," B said with a sigh and casually leaned against the padded walls of the cell, "I am less interest by the _who_, rather than the _how_. How is Kira doing it, killing people? Not a virus, and he certainty cannot go from victim-to-victim. It could be that he has a special ability to kill people just by thinking about it."

L replied nonchalantly, "_Perhaps_."

"Whatever it may be, is killing method is unique, if not peculiar. I can hardly contain my curiosity as to how this Kira is doing it. It borders the," B paused, scratching the corner of his mouth and finished, "_paranormal_, wouldn't you agree?" Beyond watched L answered with a definite nod. "If so, that opens the door to whole new realm of possibilities."

"It would seem."

"So what are the rules in this chess game?"

"Kira needs a name and face," the genius-detective explained.

"A _name_ and a _face_," Beyond repeated with a lopsided grin. This was getting interesting, so much so that he could feel it crawl up his spine and feed his brain with such thoughts. As if his curiosity could no longer contain itself, B strained against the iron-bars to peer at L and he asked eagerly, like a greedy child, "So, I must know—_how is he doing it_?" he asked eagerly, like a greedy child.

"Thoughts still gruesome as ever, I see." Beyond watched as L pushed away, and rolled on the floor in his swirling chair towards the island metal table, and sat beside the item, which was the cause of so much chaos, havoc and death—the _DeathNote_. Nothing to the detective was as baffling as the notebook itself. Caressing its glassy prison, L wondered whose bright idea it was to create the revolutionary weapon in the universe in the form of an innocent, ordinary notebook. He answered plainly, "The murder weapon is a notebook."

Beyond leaned back and exhaled with a twinge if disappointment. "What, a killing notebook?"

"Yes" L said, picking a sugar cube between his thumb and forefinger, and examining it before popping it in his mouth. Sucking on it he explained stiffly, "It has the power to kill anyone whose name is written in its pages—but you must have the person's face mind when doing so…"

Exhaling a wisp of acid smoke B asked, "Is that why you want my eyes, L? Do you feel like _killing_ someone?"

L dropped his tone degree and warned, "I am nothing like you, Beyond."

"Oh, we are more alike than you think. Just opposite sides to the same coin."

Beyond Birthday, murderer of three known souls smiled, and it was a haughty and insolent smile. Finally stubbing out the cigarette the murderer declared, "Or perhaps you want to know when you are going _to die_?"—As a human, L knew that he was mortal and would inevitably perish. He found it ironic that man as the highest and most advanced organisms on earth could create art, advance medicine and even put a man on the moon, and despite all our major accomplishments, it counted for absolutely nothing—"No you don't," he remarked, apparently changing his mind.

L's ear perked up at the sound of this.

He impassively shrugged his shoulders and replied with a gleam in his shimmering Shinigami eyes, "You don't fear death, you acknowledge it. Accept it—but what _you _do not accept is _failure_. Failure and defeat. That's a fate worst than death for you, for the world's greatest detective L." A short pause followed. "Kira is very much the same way. He cannot lose, and neither can you.

In any other case, like the Los Angeles BB Murder Case, _failure_ meant incompetence—however for the Kira-Case, failure would literally mean his death, his untimely demise. And then, soon everything he knew and had come to treasure would follow him, would inevitably share his fate. No, failure was not an option. L would never surrender the world to Kira. Power is like a drug, and once Kira got a sampling, he found it addicting. His target goal no matter how rational and understandable, became unless at the death of Lind L Taylor, who was masquerading as L. As someone _resisting_ against him. After that, he become even more of a killer with the malicious massacre of the FBI agents, all of whom were specially assigned to the Kira-Investigation. Then, followed by the disappearance of _Naomi Misora_…

Did he really want to leave the world in the hands of such a man—no, of such a murderer, of such a monster? And he refused to leave his unfinished business with the Wammy House, his heirs. So, now he concluded that sometimes evil can only be recognized by another type of evil.

Even now, when their charade was drawing to a close L reassured himself that _now_, he was performing a lesser evil for a greater good. Between Kira and Beyond Birthday, the detective much prefer the insane one, or the one that actually knew, and openly admitted what he was—a murderer. He wanted Beyond Birthday—but, L noted with building frustrating that you couldn't just ask for him. Quite simply, L had to bait the hook to catch the fish.

B cooed with unbelievable anticipation, "I can't wait to see who wins."

Hearing this, L secretly smiled to himself—he was reeling in the fish and now, it wouldn't be just Kira and L, soon, and very soon Beyond Birthday would be added to the game.


	5. Third Party

**DEAtHNOtE ** PLEASE READ

**Disclaimer**—Seeing how the DeathNote universe belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art of Takeshi Obata, I own nothing. _Nothing_. Besides, if I did, L –-(along with Alucard, Hannibal Lector, the Phantom of the opera, Jack Sparrow, Abel Nightroad, Jareth the Goblin King, Aloysius X. L. Pendergast, Gankutsuou and Argent)—would be chained up in my basement.

**Title**—GreyWalker

**Synopsis**—Even the dead have their way of making themselves known.

**Rating**—PG13 to R. Just be mature.

**Chapter Title**—Third Party

**Chapter Synopsis**—With Beyond Birthday's escape, forces begin to conjure and conspire…looking down with curious hungry eyes.

**A/N**—Sorry, that an update took so dreadfully long—but I am a full time nursing student and that said, I think that more than explains my absence. I am hopefully to write as much during my short bleak winter vacation.

Ta,

Immortalis

Third Party

--24Hours later

Even as his eyes were focused on the monitor-screen, Ryuzaki felt a constant, itching burn in the back of skull that wanted him to look at the DeathNote. It was such a curious thing, really. Throughout man's existence, each passing century produced more proficient and horrifying weapons of mass murder. Now, we have the current monstrosities of germ-warfare that ate itself from the inside out and the atomic bomb that melted fresh off bones and thus, rending its previous owner to a pile of ash and dust. However, man never crafted something as innocent or ordinary as a notebook. Despite its distance and containment inside its personal plastic-box, it picked at his brain like a fresh mosquito bite.

L speculated that like Kira, he might have used the DeathNote, as an instrument of justice and willingly use it to battle evil—_however_, unlike the grotesque killer Kira, L-Ryuzaki _knew_ that despite his good intentions, he would ultimately become the very thing he fought against. He would plunge into the abyss, and inevitably become a pawn, a slave to the will and whim of its pages. That, was _unacceptable_.

Kira—whoever he was, Light Yagami or not—started off with a reasonable motivation, he wanted to pass judgment on the wicked. Nevertheless, soon his purpose was tainted like milk that sat out to long. Now, he was perverted by pride, and with the addicting taste of power fresh on his lips, and the power of a Shinigami, Kira had decided to take over the world, naming himself as the God of the New World. All Kira would accomplish was another reign terror and a pathetically infantile way about what was justice.

For the thousandth time, he released the notebook from its plastic prison and by the fingertips held it at arm's length, as it was a plague. All things, it was fair description. It _was_ plague, and like a contagion would engulf its host in a wave of chaos and death. Quite simple, the DeathNote did _not_ belong in the mortal world. Looking upwards, he offered the notebook to the ceiling half-hoping a Shinigami to come down and pluck the dreadful thing out of his hand, and furthermore take it back from hence it came.

No, he shook his head and turned his attention to the melon slices on his plate. Licking his lips, L called out, "Shinigami-Rem."

The Death-God, grinding down her fangs approached the man and asked impatiently, "What is it?"

Gently with a fork and his fingertips, like an artist chipping off stone L peeled off the ham on the melon and plopped the succulent fruit in his mouth. He swallowed, and nibbling on his thumb looked up at the ceiling with dark ebony orbs, as if trying to look pass the concrete and steel and into the sky high above and quite possible into the Shinigami realm. Suddenly the DeathNote appeared in L's grasp, lying innocently between his long thumb and forefinger. He sat up in the chair and peered over his shoulder. The detective inquired, "_Rem_…why would a Shinigami drop their DeathNote in the human world?"

Expecting something entirely different, Rem frowned and answered hesitantly, "Sometimes..."

Nibbling on his thumb Ryuzaki motioned for the Shinigami to continue. "What would be the motivation to do such a thing?"

Huffing a short bitter laugh Rem said plainly as day, "_Entertainment_."

"Ah, for vain amusement," he exclaimed, flipping through the notebook and then finally came to a conclusion. "Than you are _not_ the _original_ Shinigami to drop the DeathNote. You belong with the Second-Kira," he concluded with a firm resolved nod. "And this is _not_ your notebook. You have purposely switched DeathNotes with another Shinigami."

Suddenly the Death-God snapped her head up and with her glowing-golden eyes wide and budging out of their sockets, demanded in haste, "How did you know—how did you come to _that _conclusion?"

L droned on, "We have confirmed that this notebook belongs to _Kira_, and not the Second-Kira as evidenced by the names—especially this one." L opened the notebook to the page with _Lind L._ _Taylor_'s name.

"I have calculated that the Death God who dropped this particular notebook," pausing he closed the notebook, gently sat it down and continued," act according because he was _bored_. You said that the Shinigami Realm was a barren and desolate land. It seems to be a very bleak world. Judging by your feelings about humans—which are less than amiable—you certainty did not drop the DeathNote here purely for enjoyment. Thus, there really no reason for you to be here anymore than absolutely necessary."

Rem snorted.

"Perhaps, and just maybe you drop one out of…" the detective paused researching for the correct term and finished, "_obligation_."—Eyes widening, Rem stiffed at that statement and even recoiled in pure animalistic defense— "Obligation to a human or to another Shinigami, that I do not know." Finishing off the melon L licked off his fingers and stated kindly, "Thank you Shinigami-Rem. That was most informative."

"L," the Death-God warned, "sometimes it is better off not to know all the answers." Then

without another word Rem turned on the spur of her heel and exited the observation-room through the wall.

OOO

Exiting off the elevator, Mastuda watched the Shinigami slipped past and took a sip of his coffee and noted, "Rem seems to be a foul mood today." And he took his typical spot next to his comrades of the Kira Case Squad.

Aizawa patted his hair down and replied out of corner of his mouth, "When isn't she in a bad mood?"

Matsuda laughed pleasantly. "Yes, that is the trick question, isn't it? I don't think she likes us, or _humans_ for that matter." He added hopefully, "Maybe she will warm up to us."

"Fat chance," Hideki Ide hissed, with a hard beady eyes staring at the computer screen and his fingers were angrily banging on the keyboard. "Rem hates Ryuzaki most of all. And I don't know why Ryuzaki tolerates her. We should just burn the DeathNote, and be rid of her."

"I suppose he thinks that maybe she can shine light on some questions, you know. Like the rules," Matsuda spectacled, playing devil's advocate.

"She avoid questions, and to me that doesn't seem like cooperation, does it Mastuda? Besides," Hideki added in his hushed voice, "I don't like Ryuzaki being around the DeathNote so much. Being around the DeathNote is terrible unhealthy. He naps with the bloody thing. Carries it around in his pocket. Isn't that what the plastic box it for—_containment_. Besides, Ryuzaki keeps opening it to a blank page with a pen in hand. Like he is thinking about writing something."

Yes, all of that was terrible strange—but then again, had Ryuzaki ever been normal? He might have been the youngest officer on the Team, next to Light Yagami, but Matsuda had the drive of a veteran; however, often his lack of experience stood in the way of practical common sense. Surrounded by talented individuals, he felt like a sore thumb. Matsuda replied firmly and with much conviction, "I trust Ryuzaki, and I think you should too. "Donut anybody?" he offered hopefully with wide doe-like eyes, as he displayed a box filled with a dozen of assorted donuts, varying from color and size.

"No"

More for myself," Matsuda said, and happily decided on a cream-filled one with chocolate sprinkles. He smelled it, and felt his mouth salvia at the thought of the anticipated snack. It certainly wouldn't hurt his waistband, seeing how he was dreadfully lean and thin, and with the constant surveillance hours, Mastuda wasn't eating that much. _My god_, he exclaimed, _I am turning into Ryuzaki_. How long before he would become a full-fledged sweet tooth, skinny, insomniac genius-detective?

_Ding_, came the sound of the elevator, and the older gentlemen known solely as Watari stepped out.

Morning Watari—" Mastuda greeted warmly, but then his voice died in his throat when he saw the angry, almost murderous look in the old man's otherwise, soft and gentle face. His pale butcher-blue eyes were filled with poison, and his wrinkled hand was tightly clutched around the cell-phone in his hand, so tightly that it cracked. He snapped it closed with a loud sound that made Mastuda jerk simultaneously, as if it were his spine in his hand, or perhaps he was merely sympathizing with the poor, innocent phone. For once the idiot had nothing more to say, and pulling the vanilla file in his hand closer to his chest, wisely and silently stepped to the side. Invisibility was the best form in the face of someone's angry, even if it wasn't directed at you.

Returning from their lengthy trip from the garage, Soichiro Yagami, as well as his son noticed this sudden change of behavior and cautiously approached. Everyone else leaped to their feet. Soon their imagination spelled the worst, most horrific images. They exchanged fearful glances and finally Light approached and asked, "Watari, did something happen?"

Sitting up in his chair Aizawa asked eagerly, "Is it Kira?"

No."

There was a sign of relief from the group.

Under his breathe but loud enough to hear, Watari mumbled, "No, an another type of _animal_."

Watari ordered in firm but gentle voice, "Would you gentlemen please give me a private, _uninterrupted_ moment with Ryuzaki. We have _domestic_ business to discuss." The Kira Task Force all nodded in agreement and parted like the Red-sea, allowing the older gentlemen to pass and didn't pursue after him, not even an inch. Curious nonetheless, they peered off into the distance watching the display unravel before them. They watched dumbfounded as Watari picked up the local newspaper off the silver-tray, and walked with deemed purpose towards the crouched-figure, with black unruly hair and an insatiable lust for sweets and chocolate—Ryuzaki. He pushed his half-moon spectacles further up on the bridge of his nose, and raised his tense, tight shoulders. Rolling up newspaper into a tight tube, Watari raised it high in air and smacked L with it, again and again.

_Smack…smack…smack, smack._

Caught completely by surprise, the world's greatest detective jerked with every blow, sinking lower and lower into the chair. He exclaimed with each blow, "Ouch, ouch, ouch."

Light allowed himself a smile, while everyone else inched closer half-hoping to catch a glimpse of conversation. Watari, from what they knew, was a cool, calm and collective individual—and carried parental guardianship over L. Hell, for what they knew, he was Ryuzaki's father, and even if he wasn't he might as well be. Again, their imagination spelled up numerous possibilities about what was going on, but of course, none of them were remotely close to the bittersweet truth.

Even though they were beyond the ears of the Task Force Watari scolded fiercely under his breath, "I told you _not_ to encourage him."

Ryuzaki asked stupidly, "Why, did _he_ do something rash?"

_Smack_—and no words were needed, because the answer was implied.

Shaking his head, Watari grabbed the chair and forcefully spun L around to see him face-to-face. He pointed an accusing finger at him, so close that L crossed his eyes to see it straight. The older man chastised in a cool even tone, "It was an ill-convinced idea, whatever was your motivation. I strongly advised you not do it, and you disregard my wishes."

Watari reported in a harsh whisper, "Beyond Birthday escaped from prison less than 24hours ago."

"He did, did he now?" the detective noted plainly.

The older gentlemen narrowed his eyes at the genius-detective and remarked dryly, "You don't seem surprised."

"I had considered it," he confessed. "I calculated two responses from my visit with Beyond Birthday, 50-50 chance with each. _One_, that he would volunteer his services in the Kira-Investigation willingly, and quite eagerly. And _Two_, he would make his escape—but 24 hours later, was a bit sooner than I originally expected." Slipping his hands into his pockets L concluded, "To summarize Watari, I have _informally_ invited Beyond Birthday to our little chess-game."

Watari closed in eyes in disbelief and asked close to breathlessness, "How?"

"Quite simply, I _challenged_ him. I may not have said the words, but the meaning was crystal clear?"

"Which was, L?"

L smiled. "Solve the Kira-Case before I do. Quite simply, it would be the ultimate triumph for B. Clearly, he took the bait and now, he will come _looking_ for Kira."

"And naturally you will chase Beyond, and thus leading you Kira."

With one firm nod L agreed, "Precisely."

OOO

Unbeknownst to L, curious eyes from the Shinigami-Realm watched him, and one set of midnight-black that would change the course of everything.


	6. Names and Numbers

DEAtHNOtE

**Disclaimer**—Seeing how the DeathNote universe belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art of Takeshi Obata, I own nothing. _Nothing_. Besides, if I did, L –-(along with Alucard, Hannibal Lector, the Phantom of the opera, Jack Sparrow, Abel Nightroad, Jareth the Goblin King, Aloysius X. L. Pendergast, Gankutsuou and Argent)—would be chained up in my basement. Wouldn't that be quite the party? A fangirl's fantasy, I think. Chain them up, get some whipped-cream and chocolate and enjoy. Yummy…

**Title**—GreyWalker

**Synopsis**—Even the dead have their way of making themselves known.

**Rating**—PG13 to R. Just be mature.

**Chapter Title**—Names and Numbers

**Chapter Synopsis**—Lies are exposed and Beyond Birthday chases down a figure of interest.

**A/N**—I am trying to get this going or mostly done before I return back to school. So, please be patient. It will get finished, I promise. Oh! If you have questions, just ask. I answer them to the full extent, and I might even give you hints about what is coming up.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO

Kanzo Mogi, stone-face who always reported like lifeless robot suddenly exclaimed with frightful horror, "My god!" Everyone rushed over and hunched over the computer screen with hot eager eyes, but Light Yagami didn't have the need to because, he knew what they were looking at—a fresh new strings of deaths. _Criminals being punished_, Light mused with a self-proclaimed grin, _the justice of Kira._ "Exactly one week after the death of Kiyomi Takada **O** 14 new criminals die of a heart attack. "

Mastuda whined like some child, "No, not again."

"There must be another killer notebook out there."

Out of the corner of his eye, Light watched a figure emerged next to him. Calm and causal Ryuzaki, the world's greatest detective L and enemy of Kira, walked towards the fidgeting mob with his mouth firmly latched on a rainbow-colored lollipop. His dark cobalt almost black eyes glimpsed at the screen and somehow, didn't seem the least bit surprise or disappointed. Grabbing the back of the chair, he sat down with his predictable pose, which was knees up and arms wrapped around him. _What will you do now, L?_ Light always thought it looked a bit childish and since Ryuzaki was certainty not a child, it seemed a bit redundant not to mention, creepy.

"Well," Mastuda noted, "there were two Kiras, which means two notebooks."

His father asked, "Could it be an another Kira?"

Pulling the lollipop out of his mouth L said, "The killings begun as soon as Misa Amane was released."

Light objected, "Ryuzaki, you cannot be serious."

His monotone voice added, "Regardless of whoever it is, we will just have to bring that person to justice."

Inside his twisted brain Light had rehearsed this scheme to perfection, and now, it was time to put his plan into action and watch it unfold. _Everything is going splendidly well_. Shoving his hands in his pockets he approached and said with his voice dripped in concern, "Ryuzaki, I have been thinking. Even if we manage somehow to catch the person exploiting the notebook, will we really be maybe to convict and punish them for mass murder?"—Slowly, one by one, everyone turned and simply stared at him, as if suddenly Light Yagami had grown a second head on his shoulder. — He further explained, "I mean, try explaining that the murder weapon is a Grim Reaper's killing notebook."

"Who would ever believe us?" Soichiro Yagami proposed with shagging shoulders, as if the weight of the world or the stress of the investigation had been placed physical and quite literally on him.

Hideki Ide hid in his face in his hands. "True. I see where Light is coming from. We might not get us an indictment, much less a legal conviction."

"What are talking about?" Mastuda exclaimed with disbelief. "Of course. Kira intentionally wrote their names down with the sole purpose of killing them. That's practically the same as if he pulled a trigger."

Nibbling on a sugar cube L said in a definite tone, "For anyone who uses the DeathNote for murder there will be no jury. Only a judge and executioner. They will be put to death as humanly possible."

_Nicely said Ryuzaki_, Light applauded.

_And what will you do now Rem?_ Light chastised keeping his face under careful control. Behind him, he imagined Rem, a Death-God bubbling with rage and completely powerless against her inevitable fate. Now at this moment, she had to know that this would happen. Quite literally, this was _her_ fault, ever since that time Rem told him that a Reaper would die if they extend a human life, and now, Light Yagami plotted to get Misa in such a position so the Reaper would have no choice but to save her. And Rem could not touch him, not for stake of hurting Misa because she loved him. Loved him as much as Rem loved Misa. Now, soon Rem would have to write down Watari and Ryuzaki's true name, thus expanding her life, and turn to rubble and sand. _Stupid sentimental Shinigami. Surely you won't allow Misa to die. Then just kill L. _

Light used Rem's own love against her, just as he had with Ryuzaki's strong unfathomable sense of justice, knowing that he would carry out the full extent of the law. With a swell of pride Light thought, _Never has this little game left the palm of my hand. Everything was going as exactly as planned._

However his plans were momentarily shattered when Ryuzaki pulled out the DeathNote from his back pocket and started to flip through it, eyes wide with determination and curiosity. He spoke out, "If Misa Amane is responsible for this current wave of deaths, and despite the fact that she was contained for 23 days—than that follows that the thirteen-day rule is a lie."

Light's attention perked, since he hadn't expected _that_. _Damn it_, he cursed to himself. Ryuzaki was obsessed with the thirteen-day rule, as much as he was with sugar and blank staring.

Finally, came the fall of the guillotine blade when looking over his shoulder at Light Yagami, Ryuzaki stated, "And thus anyone who was expected to be Kira, might be Kira yet again."

_Shit, everything was falling apart_. Ryuzaki and the others were supposed to focus their efforts and attention on Misa Amane, not him. He could feel Rem smirking behind him.

At once with a father's blind devotion Soichiro Yagami protested, "Ryuzaki, you are not suggesting _again_, that my son could be Kira."

"I am considering all the possibilities, Mr. Yagami even ones I have already explored."

"But Ryuzaki—"

Then he offered with a strange smile, "Of course we could put this matter to rest by testing the Notebook. I've prepared two death row inmates with the FBI. Inmate-A will write inmate B's name in the notebook, and conform the result. Then we will wait thirteen days later. By doing so, we will prove the thirteen-day rule accuracy by observing whether or not inmate A dies."

Mr. Yagami openly displayed his disgust, "Again, using the same trick to recklessly waste human life, Ryuzaki."

"It is possible, 78% chance that this method would prevent greater number of needless deaths, and for that, I am willingly to execute this plan—because I do not believe in the thirteen-day rule."

Mastuda eyeing Light inched closer to Ryuzaki and asked with wondering eyes, "What do you mean? Why don't you believe it?"

"It's _ruff_," he explained, opening the book to the full extent. "The letters are ruff."

"Ruff," repeated Mogi with a skeptical brow.

Rolling his eyes Hideki bolted up in his chair and criticized, "This is ridiculous, Ryuzaki. We should be focusing on these current murders, and not on rather the letter are ruff."

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Aizawa tried to calm his friend and fellow comrade. He whispered, "You know Ryuzaki doesn't do anything without a reason." Looking at Ryuzaki he added, "Which, I am sure he will explain _why_ it makes a difference."

"Feel," Ryuzaki insisted.

The detective laid out the notebook fully, and Mastuda came closer and brushed his fingertips over the lettering of the thirteen-day rule. Chills running down his spine, Light could only watch as Mastuda's brow knitted together in concentration. Suddenly his forehead relaxed and he blinked his eyes in surprise. Crocking his head to the side like some carnival parrot, he experimented with a different rule and returned back to the first. "Hey, there is a difference. The texture of the words is different. It's not smooth like the others." Mastuda exclaimed with bright eyes, and then the idiot asked stupidly," but what does that mean?"

Light wanted to scream_, it means nothing. Absolutely nothing. _

"It means that the thirteen-day rule has recently been added."

Soichiro Yagami demanded in a booming voice, "Shinigami-Rem is this true?"

However, the Death-God refused to give them an answer.

"Why would she do such a thing?" Mastuda whispered.

Ryuzaki concluded delicately, "Because the previous and now current owner asked her."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Lady-Luck

As always, _freedom_ tasted good like a rare, well aged wine—but not as good as the strawberry jam glistering on his fingers and lips. It was delicious, he thought. At the moment he was happy as an eager child on Christmas morning. Anticipation must be the most wonderful and horrible state that a human being could possible endure, Beyond Birthday mused as he walked down the busy street in Japan—32Hours after his escape from the Los Angeles Correctional Facility. Sometimes, it was simply orgasmic with the blood rushing through the miles of veins, butterflies eating away the lining of the stomach, and the mind fully geared for just about anything. Scientist called it 'fight or flight,' and it was primitive, survival hard-wired behavior at its finest. Kill or be killed.

_Ah, what an exquisite state of being. So basic, so pure and so animalistic_, the madman mused capping the jar of strawberry jam and placing it back into his sack. He would save the last contents for later, when curious and prying eyes wouldn't watch him and rudely interrupt his feeding. Now wasn't the time to draw unnecessary attention to himself. But returning back to the subject at hand, Beyond Birthday was more than happy to dip in the pool of Adrenaline.

Murder—of course, he never referred it as murder—was always the best-executed method for a rush. Now he wasn't the sort of criminal who got his rocks knocked off, or physically aroused by killing someone. Beyond Birthday liked to think himself as a Grim-Reaper, or an agent of death who eased their passage from this world into the next. Killing people was, for him, normal. It was amazing how much damage the human body could sustain or inflict on another—how despite noble attempt, death was imminent.

However, good things never last. It was only a temporary fix and then, the feeling would be gone leaving him tiresome and quite empty.

_Ah well, it was fun while it lasted_, Beyond thought as he caught his reflection in the glass of a local computer café and examined it briefly. He stared at his name, which hovered over his head like an ominous shadow. Of course, he had taken precautions and was under disguised as a simple tourist—complete with a horrid tide-dyed shirt, camera hanging around his neck, baseball cap and heavily faded jeans with holes in the thighs and knees. His delicately pale skin was darker now, thanks to tanner lotion and his black inky hair was replaced with dirty blond.

_However_, nothing betrayed the hidden trick of his eyes, save up the luminous glow whenever light passed over the lens, and as always it was so briefly and quick that people often question if they saw it at all.

Now no one, not even L or his sweet protégé Naomi Misora could recognize him.

Speaking of which, where was Naomi Misora?

Where was his lovely, pretty substitute?

After hacking the FBI data files, he discovered that Naomi Misora had quit the FBI, apparently to get married to the dead and buried Raye Penber. Currently, she was considered missing, and quite possible a victim of Kira—however her body was yet to be found. Grinning cruelly, he decided that he would go find her, and maybe give her body to L as a late birthday present. **O**

_One thing at a time_, he reminded himself.

For November, the wind was brisk, and Beyond pulled his scarf closer to his neck and cheek to shield them from the cold and meddling eyes. Without any choice, Beyond had grown use to his scars, and rather fondly. It reminded him of his needless mistakes, and so he would not be so keen to repeat them; however, at the moment, they would be one of key features used to recognize him and ship him back to the States. _A second failure_, how atrocious.

Turning away he chastised himself not to dwell on event of the past, but rather focus on the incoming future. Since Beyond Birthday had miserably fail in the Los Angles BB Murder Cases, in making an unsolvable mystery that L could not solve, he decided to catch Kira before L. Simply, it would like a competition between two genius detectives—like Holmes and Watson, the master and pupil, the original and copy.

L Lawliet challenged B, blatantly and unobtrusively.

And Beyond happily accepted the challenge.

Again, just thinking about it BB could feel anticipation surging through him like an electrical shock. Of course, it was nothing like shook-therapy he knew so intimately well. It was better.

"Look! I think it is her!" someone exclaimed brightly, hopping in place like some jackrabbit.

"She is so cute."

At the entrance Beyond glimpsed off into the distance, something apparently caught his eye—a crowd of growing people, talking in loud excited voices and fidgeting like manic mad children. Smirking, his curiosity got the better of him and he went over to investigate. He slipped into the crowd like a snake slithering in the tall long grass. Upon entering the innermost circle, BB could finally see the object had lured the mass of people—a pretty blond with wide forget-me-not eyes, dressed with a Goth-Lolita look and with a toothy girlish grin. He allowed himself a smile, after all he had been a while since he could enjoy the sight and figure of a woman. She was pretty cute thing, even if she was a bit too shinny and had more mass on her chest than brain in her skull.

"Can I shake your hand?"

"A photo, please may I have a photo?" a young girl hopefully asked.

"My daughter is your biggest fan."

However his eyes traveled upwards and his mouth dropped—Beyond's surprise however, was aimed at the _absence_ of things.

Beyond blinked and exclaimed to himself, _What is this? No numbers_. Never, and _never_ before in his entire existence, had he seen someone without a clock. Without a deadline. Everyone died, that was inevitable. There was no such as thing as immortality, in fact only _death_ was eternal. Unless…

An eyebrow perked up at a thought. _Unless, she had the eyes as well._ The ability to see someone's remaining life was quite simply, the ability to see death. Beyond could anyone's death—except his own, and now this girl's as well.

_My pretty eyes_, Beyond mused with a twitching grin.

To put in delicately, Beyond Birthday lived his life constantly pursued and reminded that all humans, including him were mortal and would inevitably die. He saw death everywhere. Death, death, death. From his first vague memory, he had always seen names and numbers, and couldn't remember a moment without them. Things spoke to him in numbers. He knew the day his father would be assaulted by a hapless mugger and die as a result of a metal slug in his frontal lobe. After that, he named the hour his mother died in a train crash thanks to a ruptured spleen. **O** Then, he associated death with the universal number of _zero_.

He speculated that he had these eyes before he was born and probably required them as he was brewing in the womb, which was why he called him Beyond Birthday. Also, because of this, he was _beyond_ being normal, which was why as a child, the smiling, blue-eyed man named Qullish Wammy took him in.

Suddenly, he remembered that Kira needs a name and a face. Perhaps, like him Kira had the eyes that able him to see the names and death days of everyone—what a perfect way to see that than with his pretty eyes. Thanks to Lady-Lucky—not to God, because he had no use or belief of him—he had found a link to Kira. Perhaps even the Second-Kira.

Finally, the blond-girl turned to Beyond Birthday, her sweet smile fading off her face and asked, "What are _you_ staring at?"

Suddenly, the crowd of mindless sheep and eager fans grew quiet.

He forcefully pulled his eyes away and grasped her hand. Patting her hand Beyond apologized, "Terribly sorry, pretty thing. I am a tourist—and it isn't every day that you meet an international pop-star," a glance upwards supplied him with her name, "_Miss Misa-Misa Amane_." Pausing, he smiled and it was a full-fledged, opened mouthed grin with two rows of tiny, white, pointy-teeth. Sweeping a bow, he placed a delicate kiss on her hand and as if unveiling an intimate secret whispered, "A pleasure, a truly great pleasure."

Flashing her eyelashes at the murderer she brushed rosy pink and cooed, "Misa-Misa thinks you are such a gentleman."

Beyond asked eagerly, "Might I have an autograph?"

"Of course."

A pen materialized in his hand and a scrape of paper, which Misa Amane scribbled down her name. And Beyond Birthday looking down at the name felt anticipation rising yet again in his veins.

TBC

A friend of mine said that my version of Beyond is a combination between the Joker from Batman, the Dark Knight and Hannibal Lector. Mmmm, I like that.

AN1. _Exactly one week after the death of Kiyomi Takada __**O**_—Okay for the timeline to work, I am working with the DeathNote movie by Shusuke Kaneko, which is awesome. Basically instead of the whole Yotsuda incident and Kyosuke Higuchi as Kira, they replaced it with an ambitious reporter, Kiyomi Takada from Sakura TV who happens to get the notebook from Rem after Light's voluntary replacement. I am using that because the timeline in shorter between Light's release and reunion with the notebook. You might ask why, but I promise it will be revealed.

AN2. _Grinning cruelly, he decided that he would go find her, and maybe give her body to L as a late birthday present._ **O—**like I said, Naomi Misora will be returning, but _alive_. I know, I know Light killed her with the notebook, however, thanks to the miracle of fanfiction she is coming back and with damn-good reason.

AN3. _He knew the day his father would be assaulted by a hapless mugger and die as a result of a metal slug in his frontal lobe. After that, he named the hour his mother died in a train crash thanks to a ruptured spleen._ **O—**Originally, I was going to make something up about B's family, I found out how they died in Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Case. Read it**. **

Hope to update within 1-3 days


	7. Boredom

DEAtHNOtE

**Disclaimer**—Seeing how the DeathNote universe belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art of Takeshi Obata, I own nothing. _Nothing_. Besides, if I did, L Lawliet would be chained up in my basement, and would be smoldered with whipped cream and melted chocolate. Yummy!

**Title**—GreyWalker

**Synopsis**—Even the dead have their way of making themselves known.

**Rating**—PG13 to R. Just be mature.

**Chapter Title**—Boredom

**Chapter Synopsis**—An alliance is formed between two very unlikely individuals

**A/N**—First of all, I must apologize for how dreadfully long it took me to update, but being a full time nursing student cuts in my time and whatever limited time is left over, I am eating or sleeping. Last quarter was hell! It was by far the worst I have ever experienced, and thankfully the upcoming quarter won't be half as bad. You know what the funny thing is? When spring vacation came along, and suddenly I had all this time to write, I had no imagination and whenever I sat down to write, it was like my brain drew a blank. It was horrible. Most of GreyWalker is written, I just need to smooth out the rough edges and bring the board ideas together. The next chapter "**Visitations"** is basically finished.

In addition, I have been brewing over some other possible DeathNote stories, staring our favorite jam-eating serial killer, Beyond Birthday and here is what I have in mind:

**Beyond B. Rising**—Beyond Birthday as a child, discovering the full meaning and daresay, potential of his gift, of his pretty eyes. (Actually it is more of a prologue to the GreyWalker story and serves as a leveling point for the sequel)

**Hostel**—Soliciting by L in a case involving the mysterious, seemingly unrelated disappearances of tourists in Russia, Naomi Misora decides that to catch a killer, you need a killer—enter Beyond Birthday. However he will cooperate, but only for a price…

**Feed the Hunger**—Life has return to normal for L, Naomi Misora and the remaining members of the Kira-Case, but now a phoenix has risen from the ashes—Beyond Birthday, and now that he has broken contact by killing a seemingly remote and insignificant homeless man, he is now the hunted. However they wonder if perhaps B.B. has a different agenda in the killings, something more _personal_…

Ta,

Immortalis

On a separate note…Thanks **Luna Moonsurf** for the stimulating review. Loved it. Hope to hear from you again.

OOO

Boredom

"Bored now," moaned a Death-God. **O**

Boredom is the true enemy of a Shinigami, especially for Ryuk. Thankfully, he was very adaptable, and was very willingly to accept new things as long as he found them _entertaining_. He was full of curiosity, a rare trait for a Shinigami, and enjoyed many facets of human entertainment like Mario golf, ping-pong and the occasional soap opera filled with quavering organ music and hysterical sobbing. Nevertheless, even if humans were _mortal_, and thus possessed short pointless, seemingly insignificant lives, Ryuk found them to be very _amusing_. It was amusing, in the way that people watch ants. To this Death-God, watching them was something like a spectator sport. Just like now, he discovered some delight in watching the unsuspecting humans go about their short lives, unaware about the events spinning about them, and more importantly that the Second Kira, and a Death-God walked among them.

And so, Ryuk dropped his DeathNote in the human-realm in order to alleviate his boredom, because life in the Shinigami Life was so incredibly dull and desolate—and if it were possible, the endless ennui would kill him.

Death by boredom…

And so, he dropped his 'spared' DeathNote into the human world, thus it would be no exaggeration to say that it was the Shinigami-Ryuk who was responsible for bringing chaos to the mortal world, but he decided to let Light Yagami have his fun—at least for now.

His grotesque face cracked into a hideous smile and a cackling laugh wreaked his lithe lean body. "Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk," he cackled like some demented hyena. _Light Yagami, _he mused. Instead of trying to become God of the New World—which was the silliest thing Ryuk ever heard of, not to mention totally cliché—Light should be more concerned with his _life_, because he might live long enough to see himself transcend to godly-hood.

However, lately, Light Yagami was turning into something monstrous. Worse than a Shinigami.

And besides, the Old Man **O** did _not_ like Light Yagami.

If Ryuk knew that Light Yagami was plotting the death of a Death-God, than so did the Old Man, because the _King of the Shinigami-Realm_ was aware of all his subjects. Most Shinigami mind their own business, and lack any sort of noticeable emotion; however, Rem, the spongy white female was _different_. She was calm, quiet but full of emotion. Her passion was her weakness, and now Light Yagami was playing it to its full advantage. Now Rem, a higher-ranking Shinigami was reduced to a puppet, a pawn. The plan was obvious, Light Yagami created a situation were Misa-Misa draws suspicion on herself, as possibly being the Second Kira, and naturally because of her maternal instinct Rem would end up in position to choose between sacrificing her life, or writing L's real name in the DeathNote, thus murdering him and killing herself. However, even if Rem loved Misa-Misa Amane, the Old Man valued his children more…

Besides a human—and a mortal nonetheless, intentionally and maliciously conspiring the death of a Shinigami was unconscionable, especially to _him_. And sooner or later, the King of Reapers would take a frightful vengeance and whatever it would be would most definitely _not_ in Light Yagami's best interest, much less for a great number of the human race. _Scary thought. A real scary thought._

Just thinking about the Old Man and what he might just do made Ryuk shiver and tremble. Ryuk violently shook off the shivers inching down his spine and said, "Moving on to something else."

Now more pressing matters called his attention, his _appetite_. True, he could go play Mario golf or watch Sakura TV, but he just was in the mood to eat something—and besides he was obligated to follow the owner of his note, which was Misa-Misa Amane at the time and she was out shopping. Shopping spree! Only Misa-Misa with her daftness and cooking wonders could relieve him of boredom, so now, they were at the supermarket, gathering supplies. Like always, Misa-Misa wanted to be well prepared in case Light decided to stop by. He yawned as he hovered comically over the fruit basket in the produce-aisle, staring dreamily down at the succulent juicy apples that were begging to be devoured. Sitting in the fruit bowel the apples beseeched Ryuk by chanting, "_Eat me, eat us. Eat me, eat us_." All things considering, it was ironic, because as a Reaper and the barren Shinigami-Realm, Ryuk had evolved in such a way that his internal organs were useless lumps of flesh. Quite simply, they didn't work, which meant Ryuk did not have the necessity to eat like a human. Obviously since he didn't eat apples for their nutrients, perhaps there was another reason—other than they were delicious. Perhaps he unconsciously equated the 'red' of an apple with the lifeblood of humans and thus always would need them. "Ah," Ryuk said to himself, "but I am not the kind of Shinigami to psycho-analyze things. I'm not _that_ bored."

Still, his stomach was growling like King Kong.

"Just one," he promised himself. Besides, if he did it right no one would notice a floating apple being chewed on.

The Death-God took a huge gaping bite out of the lush, almost blood red apple and savored the juicy rich taste. Compared to the barren Shinigami-Realm, it was simply heavenly, not to mention addicting. Clucking he said to himself, "Ha! If there was ever ambrosia for the gods, it might be apples," and he plopped the remains into the abyss of his belly. And forgetting his promise, he reached for another and it disappeared before he even tasted it. And then the next, and the following after that…

_So delicious_…

Heaving a love-stuck sigh Ryuk closed his eyes and sang softly, "Yummy, yummy I've got apples in my tummy." He reached down for another apples, but his fingers only groped the air and an empty bowl. "No more apples?"

"No more apples Ryuk," Misa Amane scolded. "Misa-Misa has everything she needs. We moving on."

"What about some apples?" he pleaded.

"Later." Misa-Misa was rumbling in the background, "Okay, next stop is the studio. Apparently my manager wants to look over a proposal from Sakura TV. Whatever."

Ryuk rolled his eyes and mouthed "Blah. Blah." Silence was not associated with Misa-Misa, and Ryuk bore witness to that. She even moaned and talked in her sleep, not to mention drool and twitch like a gasping, dying fish on a beach porch. Usually after a hard tiring day of smiling at the camera, dramatic heart throbbing acting, putting on and taking off clothes, as soon as the princess entered her grand palace, the complaining and whining started.

Then someone caught his attention. It was a man dressed in the most hideous mixture of colors and patterns that it appeared he plucked them randomly from a clothing rack. It was just plain bad taste. Just looking at his clothes made Ryuk nauseous and dizzy. _Eww_, he thought tasting apples inching up his throat. _Even I know that is in bad taste. _However Ryuk couldn't pull his eyes away from the horrible dressed man. He was reading a magazine, but didn't look at least bit interested in it, and when the salesman wasn't looking stuffed into his jacket and zipped it up. Also, he was sucking on a cigarette, and suddenly Ryuk wondered why humans even liked those dreadful, cancersticks. Next to being expensive, they shortened down a human's already short lifespan and yet, human smoked them obsessive, almost like L eating sugar. The Death-God peered at his face, trying to see what was left of his lifespan, but he was wearing a low-riding baseball cap and sunglasses dangling at the bridge of his nose, so Ryuk could see nothing and it was a disappointment.

Suddenly the man lifted up his eyes and briefly glanced in his direction with luminous, maroon tinted eyes sitting like precious stones in his sockets.

Abruptly, Ryuk stopped floating in the air.

The man walked forward, and through Ryuk, as if he was a transparent film and like always, it tickled. It was funny feeling, however, this time, it felt _different_.

Perhaps, the man felt something as well, because he stopped and peered over his shoulder, crimson eyes wondering around, and then he shrugged his shoulders and exited the door with a jaw of strawberry jam in his back pocket.

_Those eyes_, Ryuk thought, _I know those eyes_…

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Beyond Birthday decided to take a small detour before returning home to the second floor of an abandon prefabricated storehouse in the city—he decided to check-in at Misa-Misa's apartment. Now that the little blond ditz was out shopping, her apartment was his to explore. It seemed like an optimal time to snoop. After he jimmied the door with a nail from a Wara Ningyo doll, Beyond Birthday opened the door peered inside and finding the room empty he pocketed the tweezers and the paperclip into his chest pocket. He peeled off his scarf, baseball cap and discarded them into the sling bag across his chest. Heaving a sigh, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves and slipped his hands into them. He smirked at the door, because it was such a wimpy and pathetic lock. Juvenile really.

Cracking his neck he groaned in utter despair, "God, I hate this part. Being a human chameleon has its advantages—but there's nothing more degrading than prancing around like a girl."

Still, there was work to be done, and so, Beyond set aside his pride and continued with the task at hand.

Pausing, he breathed in the heavenly scent that lingered faintly in the air. The sweet fragrance was silky light and wafted in the room like shifting smoke. Beyond closed his eyes. At once his nostrils flared and his head turned in the direction of the trail. He said dreamily, "L'Air du Temps…**O**" His eyes snapped open, and at once his attention turned towards the small, table and chair in front of a mirror. Spread edge to edge with the secret weapons of a woman's beauty—makeup. There were countless lotions, eyeshadow, ruby-red lipstick, tubes of inky mascara and eyeliner. Sitting down in her chair, Beyond sorted through it with a raise eyebrow. Cautiously he snatched up a bottle with the delicate script: L'Air du Temps. "That's a _woman_'s perfume, not a girl's," and then he suggested, "Than her mother's perhaps."

After meeting the charming, emptied headed Misa-Misa Amane, he looked her up thanks to the wonders of "yahoo" and the search engine miracle "google." After his laborious research, Beyond decided that the Internet was his new best friend, next to strawberry jam, of course. But returning to the subject of Misa-Misa, he decided that underneath that girlish exterior lied an intriguing and complicated creature—with parents ruthlessly massacred, their murderer released, a sudden rise to fame and fortune, later haunted and hunted down by an avid stalker with the full intention of ravishing and slitting her pretty throat. It had to be traumatizing, and suddenly, her life seemed to be destined with a continuous cycle of misfortune and blessing.

Really, she was supposed to be _dead_, and was practically pass her expiration date—and Beyond Birthday would have to remedy that, but first, he needed to know if she was the Second Kira. After all, she had no numbers, no counting clock. Really, could she be just like him and had simply been born with the pretty eyes?

Beyond wondered as the Second Kira, where would she hide her killing weapon. His thoughts turned to a bookshelf or the lack there of inside her room. As far as books, Misa-Misa only had recipe and cooking books, and even them were awfully thin. But of course, he didn't really expect her to be the literally type, so he looked at the tower sack of magazines, mostly with her picture as the front cover. It was ironic, because people often said that B.B. had inferiority complexes, and a large ego. He couldn't help but to snuffle a bitter laugh, and reach for the topmost magazine—but then he violently retched his hand back as if he had touched molten lava.

"No, not yet," he scolded himself. He was rushing things, and as a human chameleon, Beyond Birthday needed to absorb her presence before exploring her habitat, and stepping into the physical persona of Misa-Misa Amane.

And so, Beyond Birthday took a single tour around the room, without touching anything. _Watch and observe_. There on the one side of the wall, besides the bed was a collogue of photos overlapping each other in the elaborate display of her life and precious memories. Friends and dead family members. From the outside looking in, she appeared to be an animated young girl, rich in life, always with a smile and yet, Beyond suspected the opposite—that in reality, behind the façade of frame and fortune, she was insecure, lonely and sad girl. One photo caught his attention—a photo of Misa-Misa with another man, someone with only a name and no numbers. _Light Yagami._

Beyond said, "Light Yagami, eh?"

Light Yagami looked like a young man, possibly entering college or a second year student. Everything about him, from his crisp collar shirt, pressed tie, combed hair and his stern-most –serious facial expression screamed a straight-A student, a model teenager. And judging from the photo, while Misa Amane was smiling like an idiot, Yagami, however, looked like he wanted to be someplace else and with someone else. He was willing suffering, and merely tolerated her presence, because Beyond proposed, that he needed her in some way. Perhaps needed her eyes. He suspected that the Second Kira was a fangirl of the original Kira, and somehow obtained his power of killing people. Now, perhaps he was looking at the modern Bonnie and Clyde, the original and Second Kira.

Normally, he never leaved a trace of himself—but now was an exception and Beyond ripped the photo off the wall and crippled it into his pocket. Its absence left an obvious blank spot.

Satisfied he sat on the edge of the bed, and exhaled a deep, long sigh, and then laid down on the bed, which was very comfortable in comparison to the hard-wired cot he experienced at the Los Angeles Correctional Facility. However, he couldn't dwell it and he posed the million-dollar question—_Where would I put my killing weapon, if I were a simple minded, girl?_

Closing his eyes, his thought returned back to the Wammy House. Protégé A—or Alice T. Henderson, kept a private notebook, in which she wrote down all her thoughts and during the last week of her life, they became more desperate and extreme, and soon, instead of hiding it, she carried it on her. _Poor girl_, he thought. He tolerated her, because after all, she introduced him to the wonders of strawberry jam. It was Beyond Birthday who discovered her hanging corpse. Despite, popular opinion, he had nothing to do with her demise. It was evitable, and he knew that her time was short when he first met her. But that was beside the point, because Misa-Misa did not carry her killing notebook with her because it would have been too obvious. Besides, L would have easily obtained it, and thus there wouldn't be anymore killings, and he never would have challenged Beyond Birthday. Perhaps, he wondered, that the most obvious places made the best hiding spots.

Laying flat on his back, his curious hand traveled downwards and whisked his fingers underneath the mattress, and to his mirth, Beyond felt the spine of a notebook. His face cracked into a smile. "And what do we have here? A diary perhaps. Teenage girls have such dark and twisted thoughts—even to me," he cooed like a cat. Sitting up, he lifted up the corner of the mattress and reaching his hand underneath, plucked the diary out of his safe haven. Looking at it, his eyes were filled with a ravenous hunger. Jumping out and down on the bed like some overexcited child on Christmas morning, he exclaimed in a singsong voice, "Aha!! Expose your secrets to Beyond, my pretty thing."

And then his face fell, when his eyes saw a black leather notebook, instead of the typical pink and hearts diary. It seemed so out of character for such a girl. Beyond read the childish script out loud, "DeathNote? That's a peculiar title for a diary. "It looked and felt like a typical leather school notebook; however, just by holding it, Beyond Birthday felt something stir inside him. Something vaguely _familiar_. Blinking away the cobwebs he flipped it open to a random page, and was stuck by the column by column of names. More pages, more names. Flipping through the pages he read, "Clark T. Cunningham, heart attack. Dies at 4:30pm on April 15—Fushigi Shinohara, heart attack. Dies at 11:45am on May 27—Whitney A. Hudson, heart attack. Dies at 6:25 pm on May 28—Yasue Mayu, heart attack. Dies at 10:55pm on November 2."

L's voice started to repeat itself inside his twisted brain.

Kira needs a name and face

…

_The murder weapon is a notebook_

…

_It has the power to kill anyone whose name is written in its pages—but you must have the person's face mind when doing so_

…

Beyond Birthday returned to the beginning and looked over the rules. Opening it he quoted outloud, "The human whose name is written in this DeathNote shall die…"

A pause followed.

Finally he noted with blank, emotionless tone, "This isn't a diary..."

"_Oh, you noticed_," a raspy voice whispered in his ear.

Perking his head up, Beyond Birthday very slowly peered over his shoulder and found the room to be empty, and there was no one but himself. He raised a skeptical eyebrow, and laughed nervously, because he wasn't prone to hearing voices, and yet he was certain that he _did_ hear someone. Or _something_. Beyond Birthday pride himself over his imagination, but he never imagined things to the point of psychosis. He explored the room with shifting eyes, and then he saw it—a curtain of impenetrable blackness in the corner. It was like liquid smoke, and within the animated smoke, an apparition was faintly visible—but one thing was certain, it was _not_ human.

The faceless figure asked eagerly, "Do you like it? Isn't it a beautiful instrument of death?"

It was _just_ a notebook, an otherwise simple black notebook and yet in itself the so called "DeathNote" had the power to kill anyone. _Anyone_—politician, criminal, peasant and detective—absolutely anyone could become a victim, simply by having their name written in its pages. Like death, it had no discrimination, expect by whoever was writing the names down, like Kira. Quite simply, it was the most dangerous weapon on the planet, and now, it was in the hands of Beyond Birthday, the Los Angeles BB murderer. Flipping through the notebook, his eyes wondered over the hundreds of names, dates and the details of the demise. "So you just write someone's name in the notebook, and they die?" he asked.

It gave a single nod, and within the endless seemingly impenetrable shadows a disembodied voice hissed with malice, "Yes. It is just that simple."

"No," he corrected, "just as _cowardly_."

"Yes," the intruder exclaimed, not in the least bit insulted by his comment. "You would say something like that."

Beyond asked hoarsely, "And pray tell, _what_ are _you_?" He glimpsed at the notebook, and caressed its cover like the curves of a lover and voice dripping with curiosity, he inquired, "A Shinigami? Are you a _Shinigami_, a Death-God?"

The figure exclaimed forcefully and with swelling, demanding pride, "I am _King of the Shinigami_."

There was a harsh guttural sound, and the inky shadow seeped back like rolling ocean waves returning back to the bosom of Poseidon, and a figure emerged. Given the harshness, callousness of the disembodied voice, Beyond Birthday felt anticipation and utter glee crawl up his spine—after all, what an honor, what a pleasure to come face-to-face with an underworldly being. True, he had little use for religion but that didn't stop him from indulging the mysteries of things that were out of his comprehension, or better yet, the strange coincidences of things. But, wasn't that the lure about the unknown? The vast oblivion of not knowing _what_—or furthermore _who_, was out there.

Beyond turned his thought back towards the King of the Shinigami and watched with child-like curiosity as a hand emerged from the gathering darkness, and then its arm and finally the head and torso. It was practically shapeless, featureless and looked like a moving blob of black. Then, the blackness like a liquid with a mind and being of its own, withdrew. It was as if the shadow was like a second skin, and started to shred, gradually melting off to reveal the true, hidden entity underneath.

And his twisted, deviant mind began to conjure vivid images of a Grim Reaper, a God of Death. Each image was viler than its predecessor—but his smile faded with the figure finally emerged from the bleakness…a _girl_.

Not just a girl—but a thirteen-year-old girl with thick glasses, wearing a tank-top with sunflower stamps, jean shirt with sandals, and her brilliant golden-blond hair was tied into two separate pigtails that cupped her heart-shaped face. She was a cute, young girl, and furthermore was his second victim—_Quarter Queen_. **O**

An awkward silence pulsated between them.

Like a parrot, the dead girl cocked her head to the side. Quarter Queen spoke with a childishly voice, almost innocently; however, the underlying meaning suggested the opposite. She said, "Cat got your tongue _Beyond Birthday_? Don't you remember me?"

"How could I not?" Beyond said stupidly, as a sudden electric thrill of fear ran through him, almost paralyzing his voice box.

_No, it couldn't be_, he denounced firmly, _it just wasn't possible_—but then again, he was dealing with supernatural forces and who is to say what could and couldn't happen? But, he didn't think that the dead could back to the living. He stated the obvious, "You-are-dead."

"Yes, and _you_ would especially know that, wouldn't you? After all, you bashed my brains in and poked my eyes out." she said pointing an accusing finger in his general direction, and a smile that never belonged to the quiet, calm Quarter Queen, twitched on her lips. It was a frightening sight from someone who was dead, and more importantly from someone Beyond viscously murdered all for the sake of creating a case that not even L could solve, thus defeating him.

Beyond narrowed his eyes at her and concluded firmly, "You are _not_ Quarter Queen."

She laughed, and clapped her hands together. "Very good. To me Quarter Queen is a mirage. Nevertheless, I do have an _original_ form—however, I think that it best saved for later, when _we_ are on more _intimate_ terms, wouldn't you agree?"

She glimpsed in his direction and instead of her shimmering sapphire-stone eyes, they were replaced by opal, gazed over with a milky frame and they looked empty, dead, and practically blind. **O** Her glaze wonder about until her seemingly useless eyes met his, and only then did her attention seemed focused. The dead girl approached closer, practically dancing in her steps and finally stood before Beyond Birthday, who now was sitting on the edge of the bed. Holding the hem of her skirt pinched between her thumbs and fingers and peering up, Quarter Queen sat down on the carpet floor. Looking up she continued, "Terribly sorry, if I startled you. I imagine you are stunned that I would choose this particular entity—but I thought it would be _appropriate_ to assume a familiar form. Of someone you might recognize. Her being dead is just _convenient_."

"Convenient." Beyond asked gently, "And why is that?"

Playing with a pigtail Quarter Queen explained simply, "Because I can _only_ impersonate the _dead_. **O** And soon enough, I will be able to impersonate _SweetTooth_."

"_SweetTooth_?" he replied cautiously

"L Lawliet," she offered sweetly.

Ah, of course—after all, it was a very considerate and appropriate nickname for him, but then what she was implying starting to sink in. L Lawliet was going to die. No. As much as he hated him, and despite popular opinion, Beyond Birthday did not want him dead and neither did he want to kill him—because there wasn't any fun in gloating over a corpse. A dying man was better than a corpse, but not by much. Grinding his teeth, he looked at Quarter Queen, the King of the Shinigami Realm. Everything she did was so childlike, so innocent—however, all of it was a ruse. It was a deliberate fraud in the guise of an innocent, yet dead girl.

He asked suddenly, "What do _you _want?"

Her voice carried the slightest tint of malice, "It is quite simple really, just like the DeathNote."

The air about Quarter Queen was predatory and vicious all at once, though rough like sandpaper edges and cold as dry ice. Every inch the monster she was, a manifestation of darkness and death itself. Inching closer like a slithering snake, she gripped a knee in each hand and the very presence of her touch was like liquid ice. Despite the fact that her eyes looked seemingly dead and utterly useless, it felt as though her glaze was dissecting him, like some mad scientist playing with his newly discovered specimen. Slicing and dicing every fiber of her being, down to her wiggling insides and finally, to her soul. Or perhaps, she was trying to see the reflection of herself from his eyeballs.

"I have an _offer_ for you, Beyond Birthday. A generous offer," she whispered feverishly. "Kira is conspiring to kill SweetTooth by forcing a Shinigami to choose between loyalty to _me_ and the love of a human. Her devolution overshadows her duty. Events are set in motion that cannot be resolved. And so, your friend, L Lawliet treads upon a fragile scale and as King of the Dead, _only_ I have the power to tip the scale. His life, his very existence lies on a desperate equilibrium of choice. _Your_ choice, really. What do you want to do?"

…

TBC

Author's Notes:

"_Bored now," moaned a Death-God. __**O**_—As an avid fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I simply love Evil Willow and her famous line of "Bored now." Whenever she says this, she really does sound bored and like an evil person, she relives her boredom by doing something nasty, like peeling the skin off people. It is just a plain line, but says so much more. Sometime simple is the best.

_And besides, the Old Man did not like Light Yagami __**O—**_According to "DeathNote 13: How to Read' the Old Man is in fact, the King of the Shinigami and he the most powerful being in the Realm. Apparently, he is very old, because he is referred, as the "Old Man," or perhaps he doesn't have an official name. He is charge of all the DeathNotes and is an object of fear and admiration for all Death-Gods. There is so little known about him, so I decided to fill in the blanks.

It has been my idea to use the King of the Shinigami in my story, because I think he can be such a cool character. I mean, look at Ryuk. Nevermind Rem, she's a wuss. As you read on, in my view the Old Man is something like a Mother-Father to all Shinigami, and like a parent he is very protective of his children—and so when a human (who is the scum of the earth), like Kira is planning to kill a Death-God, you can likely imagine that he won't approve. He is the 'prima eve" of all Death-Gods. He was the first, and will be the last. And so, he is not going to step aside—however, even as the King, he has rules to oblige and furthermore, to obey…that's where Beyond Birthday comes in. However, there is a bigger connection between the Old Man and our favorite serial killer, B. That's why he had to use HIM. (Hope I didn't give anything away, but got you thinking. Think you know it, put in the review.)

As far as the scene between the Shinigami-King and B, I am actually going to finish it near the end, where everything comes together. I thought about making one gigantic scene, but I wanted to make readers squirm. Also, the reason for the title "GreyWalker" is at the end.

"_L'Air du Temps…__**O**__"—_Hannibal Lecter reference from the Silence of the Lambs book, page 18.

She was a cute, young girl, and furthermore was his second victim—_Quarter Queen_. **O**—Quarter Queen is the second victim of the Los Angeles BB Murder Case, and when her single mother left town for the day, Beyond paid her a visit and killed her. Cause of death was blunt-force-trauma, and the imprint of the weapon, a lead-pipe was dented in her skull, and her eyes were poked out.

Someone wrote a wonderful fanfiction with Beyond talking to Quarter Queen in the last moments of her life. I loved it, and now, I cannot find it. If anyone knows it, please PM me.

"Because I can _only_ impersonate the _dead_. **O**—Another Buffy the Vampire Slayer reference, from the seventh season with the bad-guy, known solely as "The First," and like the Shinigami-King, he could only impersonate the dead. I think that is so cool, and if I was a God-Death, I would so do that. Not that a Shinigami doesn't look cool, but I think it is scarier and processes a more definite feeling of death.

I choose Quarter Queen, because it was appropriate. I was thinking about A from the Wammy House, who killed herself (or himself) because she/he would never measure up to be the next L, but it didn't feel right. Silent Hill the movie really sealed the deal, especially with evil Asleesa/Sharon looking at the camera. Or Damien from the Omen. Creepy.

Immortalis


	8. Visitations

DEAtHNOtE

**Disclaimer**—Seeing how the DeathNote universe belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art of Takeshi Obata, I really don't see myself as the sole owners, but merely an obsessive fangirl who would love to show L a good time. Or better yet, beyond Birthday. Sorry, I am so _turned-on _by a sociopath who eats jam. Yummy.

**Story Synopsis**—Even the dead have their way of making themselves known.

**Rating**—PG13 to R. Just be mature.

**Chapter Title**—Visitations

**Chapter Synopsis**—Someone disquietingly familiar comes to see Naomi Misora…a figure from Los Angles

**A/N**—_I know_, I know that Naomi Misora dies in DeathNote, do you don't need to remind me—however to the liberations of fanfiction, I am changing that. Don't worry I have a reasonable and legitimate excuse as to _why_, and if everything pans out right, probably in the next 2-3 chapters. Rereading the manga, and watching the amine got me thinking, so I decided to answer my own curiosities by writing a fanfic. Please be patient. The story will get finished, I promise. Again, so sorry it took such a long time, but I am a full time nursing student, and other than the single setting of writing before bed, I really don't have anytime.

Oh! If you have questions, just ask. I shall answer them to the full extent, and I might even give you hints about what is coming up.

Your obedient servant,

Immortalis

REVIEWS. Please. Reviews are one of the few joys I have in my life, and further motivation to write—otherwise I feel like no one is reading, and I should quit. Share your ideas. REVIEWS.

PS. I ship _B X Naomi_, and _L X Naomi X_ B because Naomi Misora could always be the peanut butter, or better yet the _strawberry jam,_ between our favorite genius detective and his doppelganger.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Visitations

_The King of the Shinigami Realm manipulated the young girl's face, and answered with a leering grin, "I only impersonate the dead."_

OOO

_Horrible, terrible weather_, the figure mused drearily, _sort of matches the circumstance that I have gotten myself into_. Rain hammered against the crumbling brick-and-marble façade of the Shusuke Foundation for Mental Health, and high above, bright segments of lightning flashed against the midnight sky and briefly illuminated an otherwise dark world below. Thunder cracked, staking the foundations. All things considering, it was ominous and bleak, and only emphasized the sense of overwhelm dread and oppression—especially for her, for _Naomi Misora._

Trapped…

Caged…

Trapped and caged like a rat.

Finally, she pulled her eyes away and returned back to the small, plain cot against the wall and pulled along her personal IV pole, her only companion in the desolate place. She stared at the bag of Lactated Ringers solution with a sense of dread and thought dismayingly, _great, another thing I am depended on_. Of course, the doctor said it was just a precautionary measure, because of dehydration but still the thing seemed like such a nuisance. Besides, what did it matter? Her condition was no longer critical, physically she was stable. Sometimes it seemed like that doctors were better at keeping patient clueless, than in treating them.

Naomi sat on the bed and crossed her legs. Picking up a pencil, she applied herself to a crossword, considered appropriate and approved by the staff for someone in her mental state. It was stimulating, but occasionally Naomi's chocolate eyes drifted towards the window and the world beyond the glass and iron bars, and beyond the storm. Somehow, the weather outside mimicked the inner turmoil racing inside her being, and better yet, her battle with the Hospital to get released.

Naomi knew where she was, in the general sense—but she couldn't remember how exactly she had gotten there. True her personal psychiatrist, Dr. Yokoyama and the staff told her the vague, nonspecific details, but after hearing the story, it felt like a puzzle missing several pieces or book minus the middle chapter—Apparently, a passing couple found her in a cationic, suicidal state and rushed her to closest hospital. There, the physicians diagnosed her severe depression related to the death of her fiancée, Raye Penber and placed her on a regime of antidepressants. Despite their noble intentions, the drugs were useless and seemed to have quite the opposite effect. Nothing could snap her out of it, and she unable or unwilling to respond to her own name. She had a vacant, blank stare with dead empty eyes, and while Naomi Misora was there physically, mentally she was far, far away. No one could get her to eat much less drink, and soon the physicians were forced to feed her by vein **O**. It was unlike anything they had ever seen before, and quickly they settled on cationic schizophrenia and placed her on 24hour suicide watch.

Nevertheless, she was persistent, almost _possessed _to kill herself.

However, things turned unexplained, almost paranormal—seeing how with Naomi Misora there were a series of strange, failed suicide attempts that naturally should have left her long dead, and buried six feet under.

_Death_, they said, _seemed to avoid her_.

The Grim Reaper refused to stake his claim on her.

Than like clockwork, 23 days **O** after the day she came in, Naomi Misora woke up from the nightmare, from her private hell.

_Oh God_, she thought hiding her face in her hands.

_Poor Raye_, Naomi thought sadly. He was the epitome of the perfect FBI agent, loyal, meticulous, by the book and of course, powered by a sense of duty and above all, justice. Despite all that, he was killed, maliciously murdered by Kira. After the hijacking and the messily death of Kiichiro Osoreda, Raye seemed troubled and distracted that he had given his name out, especially when L strongly expressed that under no circumstance should they ever, and besides it seemed evident after the Lind L. Taylor incident that Kira needed a name and a face to kill. —Raye said, "_Nothing's wrong—I just had to show my ID to some kid. Some brave, stupid kid, who was going to stop the hijacker. Going to get himself and everyone else killed. Besides, he promised to keep his mouth quiet, so it's fine. He seems like a good kid and all, it's just that I suddenly feel expose. Please, Naomi don't fret about it. You are my fiancé. You are not in the bureau anymore."—_And so, that's how Kira was alerted to the presence of the FBI in Japan—Raye Penber showed his ID to just one person, that one person killed him and the eleven other agents. _Kira had been on that bus, and Kira was the one person Raye showed his ID to,_ Naomi concluded.

And so it was true that Kira needed a name in order to kill someone. Why else would Kira need to see his ID?

Thinking back to the events of the bus jacking that Raye described, Naomi started to wonder if Kira could manipulate his victims. Maybe Kira orchestrated the whole thing—Kiichiro Osoreda hijacking the bus, all to uncover Raye's name just to kill him. But why Raye, why not the eleven other FBI agents stationed in Japan? _Because,_ Raye was following Kira. It was evident now, that Kira was either a family member of an agent or an agent himself of the NPA.

And so, after the funeral Naomi Misora returned to the FBI wanting to join forces, yet again with L and solve the Kira-Case—however she was intercepted. _It had to be Kira_, she thought. On a chilly January day, with her theory brewing in her mind she headed off to the Japanese police, and once she arrived, asked to speak to someone in charged of the case. But they weren't exactly sure how to assist her, but then, someone offered his help. _What was his name_, Naomi wondered, _I hardly remember what he looked like_. Now, Naomi knew that whoever he was, he was _Kira_.

If Kira were a family member or an agent of the NPA, than his presence at the police department certainty wouldn't rise suspicious of the other officers, which suggested that they knew him. He must've found her by chance. _Luck_, she smirked.

"_I am Kira," _he confessed with a smug smile, and everything changed. Naomi recalled an empty apartment, a sense of despair, a swinging rope…wanting to die, but strangely unable to do so. Wincing, Naomi Misora closed her eyes trying to plunge the images from her mind. She never wanted to remember that. One memory flatly refused to be silenced and was seared into her brain, was Kira's laughter as she unwillingly went to seal her doom.

Went to die…

Of course, after hearing about Kira and the FBI, the physicians were quick to ship her the Shusuke Foundation for Mental Health for a psychological evaluation. They had the audacity to call her mentally unstable, crazy even. _But __why would I kill myself? _Naomi asked herself that question over, and over again. A very long time after that, her question was answered—because Kira made her. So, her theory was painfully true, Kira would manipulate his victims and the nature of their death.

_But still_, she wondered, _the bigger mystery I suppose is why I am alive?_

Deep inside, Naomi had a theory but she wasn't sure if she wanted to believe it…

And feeling a chill she pulled her sweater closer and curled her knees to her chest…just like L.

"Terrible weather, right?" came a lush, dull voice. It was her personal psychiatrist Dr. Yokoyama, and the one thing standing between her and the door, towards sanity and telling L everything she knew. Typically, he was dressed in rumpled elegance with his tweed jacket and knotted-tie bundled tightly at his throat. His thinning white hair was perfectly sleeked back giving him a hard look, so much so, that his broad, fat forehead looked like it was busting at the seams. Pushing his glasses further on his face, his beady, hard eyes darting briefly around the small room before settling on her. Everything about him—his movements and speech were delicate and precise, almost as if it had scripted, and then rehearsed inside his brain, before they actually occurred. He attempted a warm smile, but with his hard heavily-wrinkled face, it came out more as a sneer. Vanilla folder in hand, he flipped it open and stared at the contents indifferently, like it was just another meaningless but yet, obligated task to perform. "So…" he started glimpsing at her chart, "Miss Misora, how are we feeling today?"

"Fine, just fine." Inhaling a breath of courage, Naomi said in a even, calm tone, "Doctor Yokoyama I know the first thing a hysteric says, is I am not crazy—" she paused, adding more forcefully, "but I am _not_ crazy."

"Good." his monotone voice concluded as he closed the vanilla folder with a snap. Dr. Yokoyama glimpsed over his shoulder, toward the opened door and the corridor beyond. Clipboard in hand, he then sat down in the chair besides the bed. "Recognition is the first step towards progress. Shall we continue with our review session?"

"Might there be any indication when I can leave?" she asked perhaps a bit too eagerly.

"Patience. One thing at a time. Recovery is like a latter, one step at a time," he reminded her with that monotone voice that often lured her asleep. "Now, like always I will begin with a preliminary, open-ended question."

_Of course, like always_, she mused dreamily staring out the window.

"How have you been sleeping, _Naomi_?" the doctor inquired, suddenly eagerly.

A strange current almost like a physical shock, passed through Naomi. The weakness, the feeling of torpor, receded and she suddenly felt wide-awake. Never before had Dr. Yokoyama had addressed her as Naomi, in fact he flatly refused to do so, because it was too personal and he claimed it was an invasion of privacy. _Perhaps_, she explained, _it is just_ _concern_. Misora shook her head so fast it blurred and she said, "I sleep fine. Here and there."

"Ah good," he said. Dr. Yokoyama peered again at her record and scribed down a note. "I was worried that you might continue to have nightmares, you know. Not everyone could put such a traumatic event behind them."

"It's not exactly behind me, Dr. Yokoyama," she said sharply

"No, of course not," he exclaimed with a terrible dull voice. "After all, not everyone would want such memories. Especially with such ghastly thoughts. Dark, suicidal thoughts. Trapped in your own private hell. Wanting to die, but completely unable to do so." Dr. Yokoyama turned to her with a glint in his eye and whispered like a light seduction, "Just makes you wonder what Kira is capable of…"

There it was again, and an electric tingle inched up her spine. His voice has changed into something both foreign and disquietingly familiar. "Doctor," she said, leaning away.

Dr. Yokoyama sat up in the chair, peering at her intently, as if weighing the effects of his words. "Sorry, am I rambling? Sometimes I find that I talk far more than my patients."

_Yes, that was painfully true_. Feeling another chill Naomi pulled the big bulky sweater closer and emphasized her next words, "Please doctor, I would like to go home."

"And you will," he falsely promised. "But, first I must determine if you are physically and emotionally ready to be reintroduced back into society. Now, you claim that your _mental-state _was a result of Kira."

_How many times am I going to tell the same story twice? _She groaned, hiding her face in her hands. _I am never going to get out of here, am I? _Honestly, all Dr. Yokosama needed to know was just call the FBI, ask for Director Cunningham and he would explain everything—but the good doctored seemed unable, or better yet, unwilling to do so. And it wasn't like he didn't have the number.

"So…" He continued to drone on, "Your fiancé, Raye Penber under strict orders from the mysterious detective L, was investigating the Kira Case. And Kira killed him. However," he added with his voice dripping with sarcasm and doubt, "despite the fact that you are a proficient, not to mention a observant FBI agent, you have no recollection of what Kira looks like, much less who he is. Am I correct?"

Eyes equally as hard she firmly said, "Yes."

"Shall I summarize what _I _think happened?" he offered with his head hanging at an odd angle, and a grin plastered on his mouth.

Naomi felt an unfocused rise of panic rise up within her and she said, "Sure."

_He's going to say that I am crazy_, _and I am never leaving here_, she thought with a twinge of despair.

Surprisingly he said, "_I believe you_."

"Excuse me?" she demanded harsher than she originally intended. If he did believe her than things were looking promisingly, but somehow, he didn't seem _entirely_ honest about it. "Dr. Yokoyama, if you are making fun of my disposition, that is in poor professional taste."

"That's my girl," Yokoyama chirped a bit too happily, giving her an applause.

Naomi blinked, staring at him as if a third head spouted on his shoulder.

Noticing her confused expression, he explained, "No, I meant it sincerely—I believe you. I believe that Raye Penber trailed a bit too close for Kira's liking, and killed him as a direct result. Of course, Kira couldn't just kill Raye, otherwise it would be too oblivious that whomever he was investigating was Kira. And so, the other agents had to die as well. And he intercepted you from talking to L. That is clearly evident—but during your _episode,"_ the doctor added with a gleam dancing in his eyes, "hypothetically, I would say that were a _puppet_…"

_A puppet_, she repeated to herself. _Where is he going with this?_

Squinting, Dr. Yokoyama peeled off his half-moon spectacles and polished them. When they were crystal clear and without a speck of dust, he placed them back on the sloping bridge of his nose. Bringing his fingertips together, like in prayer, he peered intently at Naomi over the rim and added, "But instead of being made from fragile, delicate glass—and shattering or dying, if you will—you are made out of _iron_, _Misora-Massacre _**O**."

_What is going on? _

Somehow deep inside—either with female intuition or years working with the FBI, she knew _something_ was off with Dr. Yokoyama. It seemed like he just wasn't himself today, as if _something, _some critical component was missing from the good, well-aged psychiatrist. Secretly she joked that perhaps it was too much sugar with the morning coffee—however, the trickle of malice that lay so faintly in his words and the glint of malevolence glittering in his luminous eyes, suggested something more spiteful.

"And despite your armor, it probably felt as though something was controlling you. Pulling on the threads on your mind and limbs. Forcing you think horrible thoughts…and _death_ seemed like such a picturesque _release_…"

Underneath the façade laid another voice entirely, a hideous dry chuckle.

"A release just out of your reach." Completely oblivious to her inner turmoil, he continued on, "The only thing that puzzles me, is that yet you lived through this attack, and your fiancé, regrettably did not. Him like countless other victims are dead. My question is, why? Why are _you_ alive? Aren't you the least bit curious?"

A pause followed, as a horrifying revelation dawned upon her…

"_Beyond_…" she reluctantly asked, her voice trembling. "Beyond Birthday?"

"My dear, Naomi…" Dr. Yokoyama said sitting up in the chair with his voice so different now and a glint shimmering in his eyes. "Did you really think you'd see the last of _me_?"

The silence between them carried an aura of unspeakable dread.

_Beyond Birthday_, she wondered with a trace of doubt. No, it just wasn't impossible. The sick bastard was rotting away in jail, and if he never escaped, L certainty would have been the first to share such a critical piece of information with her…then again, how could L _possibly_ contact her, especially since had been "put away" for the past 3 weeks with no contact to the outside world. To the outside, she was MIA, or presumed dead.

A pause

Dumbfounded, words failed her or perhaps, Naomi Misora was just in denial. _Oh, no. It couldn't be_…

Beyond Birthday as Dr. Yokoyama leaned towards her like a predator closing in for the killer blow, but instead, he laid a comforting hand on hers. Holding her hand as if it were a small vulnerable and frightened creature, B.B. traced his thumb over her knuckles and Naomi could feel her pulse throbbing, quickening against his curious touch and the proximity unnerved her. His gruesome smile grew even larger, exposing rows of white, pointy teeth. Then Naomi witnessed—with a thrill of sheer horror—that his other hand held a tiny _syringe_, which was injecting a colorless liquid into the IV port near her wrist. The moment she noticed, he withdrew the syringe, palmed it, and then effortlessly slipped it back into the lining of his breast-coat. The movement was so swift that Naomi questioned whether or not the even actually occur, but the stinging wave of paralysis only confirmed her suspicions.

"My God," she exclaimed, retching her hand away. _Oh my God._

Beyond Birthday continued as if just having a calm, friendly conversation with an old friend, "Knowing _me_, you should have known better."

She opened her mouth to hurl an insult at him—or better yet scream for help, but the words died in her throat, and the feeling of lassitude intensified and soon, she felt utterly powerless against the drug swimming in her veins.

Adjusting his tie, B as agile as a cat stood to his feet and closed the door, leaving murderer with his victim. He finished with a playful wink, "Like I told you, it was _never a goodbye_, but rather _see you later_."

Feeling the vague effects of the mysterious drug, Naomi stared at her IV port, as if it were some foreign entity or even a plague. _What is it_, she wondered. _What did he give me?_ Drowning deeper and deeper into the drug, she asked belatedly, and despite her best efforts there was a frightened waver in her voice. "Beyond—what did you just give me?"

He lifted his eyebrows in an over-exaggerated display of curiosity and sudden surprise. "Oh, are you starting to feel it? Feeling weak and then warm, like slipping into a warm bath?"

"What is—is it?" she demanded feeling an electric thrill of fear rushed though her, almost paralyzing. Blinking, Naomi tried to brush away the cobwebs clouding her vision, and with a sign of frustration nearly fell off the side of the bed. Her skin felt flushing hot, and soon beads of sweat glistered on her forehead and upper lip. Her head rolled limply and through the hazy fog, Naomi stained to see the grinning face and strange shimmering eyes of Beyond Birthday. She demanded, "What—what did you—you do?"

Beyond, who watched her theatrics with a faint smile replied as earnest as a criminal could, "There's nothing to worry about, Naomi—its clinically safe for you, for your, " he paused stressing the next word, "_condition._ It's from my own special recipe. Just a mild sedative to make you more docile."

_Docile, like a bleating lamb to the slaughter_, she thought.

Beyond smiled.

She concluded, _He's going to kill me._

Killers like beggars so she decided to stroke his ego and whispered, "You don't have to do this?"

"I really have no choice, you know," he explained with a gloating I'm-going-to-kill-you smile, "Wouldn't want you to do something _rash_. You'd try to bash my head in, and as I may not have much of a face left, I would like to keep the remaining half pretty."

_No, you can't do this. Don't do this_, Naomi cried. She wanted to believe him, but with his reputation for being a murderer and an evil genius, it caused her to have second thoughts, and filled her brain with horrible, twisted contemplations—each one more bloody and graphic than the previous. Still, the drug lingered, swimming thick and quick in her veins Leisurely with each passing movement, she felt a sensation of warmth and calm wash over her, like rhythmic waves in the ocean. Bit by bit, her apprehensions were replaced with surprisingly, a feeling of perfect _tranquility_.

So calm…

Sinking down in the bed, she glazed up at him with composed, glassy eyes.

"There…I think the therapeutic effects **O** have just settled in." Returning back to the chair beside the bed, he said as if calming a fanatic child, "we can have some privacy. No uninvited or prying guests. Just you and me, Naomi."

_Lovely, just I wanted._ _To be trapped with a madman, and a murderer, nonetheless._

Peering at him—not as Dr. Yokoyama, but as _Beyond Birthday_, Naomi was able to see the modifications that he did to literally become the lanky psychiatrist, like the graying-wig, pencil lines under his eyes, stooping shoulders, and simple rubber prosthetics to raise his cheekbones and broadened his forehead, but of course to hide the burn scars from their encounter 2 years prior. _Cheap, street tricks_. Noticing it now, she chastised herself for not coming with the conclusion earlier. The little perfections—but e_specially_ the eager, morbid reflection about death and dying, should have been plenty to warn her, but she unwisely ignored it, and now, as a result, she was locked in the room with him and whatever plans brewing inside his twisted brain.

Smiling Beyond confessed sincerely, "It is _good_ to see you again, Naomi. I just hope the feeling is mutual."

_Surprised yes, pleased no. _

Suddenly serious he inquired forcefully, "So tell me—not as your psychiatrist but as your friend, how are you feeling?"

_Friend, he said?_ After digesting that asinine question, Naomi with her gaze perceptibly hardened turned to him and repeated, "Friend?" However with the drug swimming happily in her veins, she melted back into a clam, rhythmic state of general well-being. Licking her dry lips she finished, "That is a strange word coming from you, especially given the chance—_like now_—you would deny me my life. I think, _that_ would certainty dampen aspects of our friendship, wouldn't you agree?"

Not amused by her slick comment B bluntly inquired, "So, you think I am here to kill you?"

_Yes, why else?_

"Yes," she whispered. _Well, I did ruin his plans to defeat L, _but Naomi made a point not to verbally mention that because it could possible cause a _reaction_ from Beyond Birthday, and he was anything but predictable.

Placing a hand over his heart, as if he had been mortally wounded by her suggestion, Beyond teased, "My, what an imagination you must have. Perhaps you _do_ need therapy, _however_," he added swiftly, "this is a chance reunion. A sweet little girl **O** told me that you were alive, and thus I discovered you simply by accident—I don't want to bore you with the details. Save that for another time," he said with a twinkle in his eyes, as if to say I-know-something-you-don't know. "It was a coincidence, although a happy one at that. Truthfully, I was half-expecting a _corpse_, but seeing you alive warms me to the core, _inside_ out. Still, if it's of any consolation, than _no_, I do not hold a personal grudge nor a vendetta against you..."

Staring at him Naomi thought, _why don't I believe that?_

"You are _alive_, and I fully intend on keeping you that way."

Naomi asked cautiously, "if you are not here to kill me than what are you here for?"

"Aren't you the least happy to see me—or even that I found you?"

"Honestly," she confessed, "I don't know how to feel about this."

Standing to his feet, he shoved his hands into his pockets and proposed with a sweet smile, "How about a _thank you_. It is just polite. Good manners."

"No," she answered, because Naomi wasn't about to give him the gloating satisfaction.

Beyond crossed his arms and bemused with a not so friendly smile, "You really should be more considerate, or otherwise, I may just leave you here."

Naomi blinked. "What?"

"I am going to get you out of here."

Naomi wanted to laugh. Honestly, if he thought that she was going to come quietly, than he had another thing coming. "With you, fat chance," and then she added hastily in a feverish whisper, "Besides, how do think we're going to manage that?"

Beyond said as if the answer was bluntly obvious, "Walk out the door."

"I am serious," she snapped angrily, rising to her feet.

"So, am I," he added quite seriously, "however, if you insist on behaving like some self-righteous, ice witch…than I will be happy to leave you here. Maybe, I'll send some curtains in the mail, just to make it more homey." His voice changed, almost threatening, "I promise you that you will _never_ get out of here."

"Really?" Naomi said, suddenly surprised by his conviction. "Why, do you say that?"

"Because, Dr. Yokoyama is an avid supporter of Kira."

"Why? What makes you think that?"

"Because, he has a shine for Kira. Worships them like a god."

Of course, she thought, as everything started to fall into place. They didn't even believe that she was from FBI, and the blundering idiots hadn't gone as far as to check with the bureau—because Dr. Yokoyama made sure that no one knew the truth.

Naomi demanded fearing the answer, "Where is Dr. Yokoyama?"

"Alive, I promise you. He is tied up. Gagged. _Now_, are you ready?" he asked eagerly, hand on the doorknob.

Standing there, she regarded with his narrowed, suspicious eyes and decided that she wasn't in the position to be choosy about the identity of her savor—or future captor. She nodded.

Beyond Birthday—or masquerading as Dr. Yokosama, opened the door and allowed Naomi Misora to step out before him, and together, side by side, they walked down the hallways. To the passing nurses, patients and visitors, they just looked like a doctor escorting his patient; however, Naomi felt exposed, as if every pair of eyes were focused on them. Studying them. Nervousness crept up her spine and her stomach constricted, practicing flip-flops better suited for the next Olympics. It was like stage fright, which was appropriate because they were about to present their own special performance and like a nightmare, Naomi didn't even know her role, much less her lines **O.**

Her breath stopped in her windpipe when a nurse approached. "Dr. Yokosama. Your wife called for you, she's waiting on line 3." She leaped forward, eager to please like some attention-starved lapdog and offered, "If you want, I can escort Miss Misora to therapy."

"No," he said, "With my age, I could always use the extra exercise, but thank you."

The nurse smiled, and trotted off.

Naomi flashed him a dirty loom and spoke out of the corner of her mouth, "Your goody-goody charade makes me sick."

He reminded her, "Beggars can't be choosers. Stop your whining. Besides, the efforts of my plan will unravel themselves," he paused and looked at his watch, "in three…two…one…"

Nothing happened.

Frowning he looked at his watch again.

"So much for your genius, diabolic plan," she replied sarcastically.

Then there was a chorus of screams, and a cloud of pouring smoke.

"A fire?" she gasped. "That's _your_ plan. Burn the building down?"

A smile crept on his face. Dr. Yokosama called out, "Fire drill! We know the drill people. Patient evacuation."

As promised, everything worked like clockwork and Naomi found herself stepping out of the Shusuke Foundation for Mental Health, and into the free air _and_ the pouring rain. It would have felt a thousand times better, if the Health was smoking and smoldering. Evacuation was chaos, an utter mess and every hospital's worst nightmare **O**—one of those situations, which experts draw up a sophisticated, step-by-step, detailed plan, and pray to God, it never happens. It reminded her of those Hollywood disaster movies, like "War of the Worlds" and "Day After Tomorrow," especially with all the screaming, fanatic running, condense thick crowds and wondering, shifting eyes. Though somehow, Beyond Birthday managed never to be further than an arm's length from her and direct the masses through complete evacuation, because after all, Dr. Yokosama would have and been expected to do the same. Regrettably, somewhere during the mess, her IV was brutally ripped out and she was forced to leave that infernal machine behind **O**. Now, dark crimson blood was oozing down her arm.

Chest heaving, she looked at the building and the remaining poor souls emerging from the thick clouds of smoke. A husky voice whispered against her ear, "Smoke bombs are a wonderful thing, don't you think?"—Of course, it was none other than Beyond Birthday—"Please, did you honestly think that I was going to burn down an entire building?"

"You are anything but predictable," she said.

"Stop. You are making me blush." And he grabbed her wrist and roughly pulled her away from the crowd. At once she opened her mouth to voice her complaint, but Beyond Birthday interrupted smoothly, "No one is going to notice, Naomi. Everyone's eyes are elsewhere, looking at the building and not us. Distraction is the best diversion."

True enough, they moved through the unsuspecting crowd like shifting smoke, invisible. Leaving the loud crowd behind, he urged them to quicken their pace by touting across the dead parking lot. Subconsciously her eyes glanced up head and she jumped involuntarily at the car covered in dust, its glossy and flawless surfaced swathed in trails of salt and frost—and Beyond Birthday opened the passenger car door for her, and forced her inside. Pulling the keys out of his back pocket, he leaped in and the engine roared to life.

Finally with another gush of gas, they peeled off the road leaving a trail of rubber behind them…and Beyond Birthday laughing with the rain pounding on the steel hood.

TBC

Author's Note (along with some Nursing Knowledge in layman's terms)

_Were forced to feed her by vein __**O**_—More importantly known as TPN. While normal IV therapy maintains or restores lost fluid, it is not enough to survive on with long periods of time—especially if you aren't eating anything (like with Naomi Misora). Basically, the TPN is a super-super thin milkshake filled with lipids, proteins, glucose and vitamins that can be inserted directly into the blood, and 'feeds the body by vein.' Everything is absorbed. However it needs a central-port like in the chest, near the right atrium. This is a last, possible resort.

Of course, TPN are much more complicated than that, but that is the cliff-note version. There you go, you learned something new on . Fancy that.

_23 days __**O**_—Remember, the DeathNote only works within 23 days, like in L Changes the World, which are the last 23 days of L's life. Cannot wait for its USA release because it comes out on my birthday. Aren't I a lucky fan?

_Misora-Massacre __**O**_—Nickname for Naomi Misora from the FBI. Read, Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases.

_Therapeutic effects __**O**_—is when the drug works at its best.

_A sweet little girl __**O**_—King of the Shinigami, dressing up Quarter Queen. Like I said in the previous chapter, there is much more to the Old Man and B's discussion, which will be revealed as the story unravels and wraps itself up.

_It was like stage fright, which was appropriate because they were about to present their own special performance and like a nightmare, Naomi didn't even know her role, much less her lines __**O**_—Has anyone ever had a dream like this?

_Evacuation was chaos, an utter mess and every hospital's worst nightmare—one of those situations, which experts draw up a sophisticated, step-by-step, detailed plan, and pray to God, it never happens_ **O—**Trust me, it is a horrible situation. Watching the Batman: The Dark Knight, and the police and nurses trying to get everyone out of Gotham Hospital, gave me shivers and I cringed. Actually, I think I watched that scene with my eyes closed.

_Regrettably, somewhere during the mess, her IV was brutally ripped out and she was forced to leave that infernal machine behind __**O**_—The only say I can say about IVs…they hurt. They suck. And don't yank or pull on the tubing. Ouch!

Next chapter "Two Lifelines" returns to L's expected demise—or lack thereof…

PS. Don't try to argue with me about nursing, because _I-will-take-you-down_. If you plan on it, better bring _two reliable_ sources that prove otherwise, and then, _maybe_ we shall talk. Obviously, I cannot include everything and each time is different. There are just layman explanations.

Ta,

Immortalis


	9. Two LifeSpans

DEAtHNOtE

**Disclaimer**Seeing how the DeathNote universe belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and the art of Takeshi Obata, I really dont see myself as the sole owners, but merely an obsessive fangirl who would love to show L a good time. Or better yet, beyond Birthday. Sorry, I am so _turned-on _by a sociopath who eats jam. Yummy.

**Story Synopsis**Even the dead have their way of making themselves known.

**Rating**PG13 to R. Just be mature.

**Chapter Title**Two Lifespans

**A/N**_I know_, I know that it has certainty been a while. And I am so sorry. I think this was the hardest chapter to write because so much happens and I really didnt want to split it. If you have watched the amine or even read the manga, you are a general idea about what happens, so therefore, I really dont have to write everything.

Oh! If you have questions, just ask. I shall answer them to the full extent, and I might even give you hints about what is coming up.

Your obedient servant,

Immortalis

REVIEWS. Please. Reviews are one of the few joys I have in my life, and further motivation to writeotherwise I feel like no one is reading, and I should quit. Share your ideas. REVIEWS.

P.S. I now have a deviantart account under ImmortalisReaper9.

OOO

Kira was so close to victory that he could taste it. Everything was going according to plan, and now, they was one final step yet to complete and then his plan would be completeboth the Shinigami Rem and L would be dead, and he would be that much closer to making a new world. Still, he needed Misa-Misa Amane. He kept reminding himself that sooner than later, she would outlive her usefulness and then, without Rems maternal and critical eye, he would kill her. Suicide, sound promising.

Looking at Misa-Misa, Light Yagami replied a dreamy voice that would just make her melt, "Right now, Im in no position to be punishing criminalsthats why I need you Misa-Misa. Continue passing righteous judgment." He pulled her closer, slipping his warms around her petite waist. It was amusing how easily he could manipulate her. She would do anything, absolutely anythingwhat a picturesque image of the obedient, sacrificial lamb. Now, she was staring up at him with those common brown eyes and she was so close that she was practically cross-eyed. Her lips were parted, begging for a kiss. Light forced a smile, and drew her closer into a hug with his mouth on her earlobe. He whispered, "Everything should be finished, and then you and I can make a New World together."

"A perfect world."

"Exactly."

She looked away, chewing on her lipan annoying habit of hers.

As always, Misa-Misa needed a little encourage. Light withdrew; taking hers hands into his and gave them a squeeze. "What is it? Something is on your mind."

Misa-Misa nodded.

"Tell me," he prompted, "you should never feel that you have to keep things from me."

Lip quivering, she pulled him closer and spoke into her ear. "Misa-Misa thinks shes being followed."

It was always something increditably stupid, but easily fixed.

He huffed a laugh. "Part of being a celebrity are the stalkers, and obsessive fans," Light said. "And if theyre not following you than your managers are."

"This is different," she urged. "Whoever it is, Misa-Misa thinks that they know about us. About being Kira?"

Sometimes she had a very active imagination, and besides that, the thing she was suggestion was quite impossible.

"Misa," Light chastised, pulling away.

"Misa-Misa is serious. Look at this," she whispered feverishly.

The little whining bitch forced something into his hands, and Light suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, or better yet, smack her across the face for her stupidity. He could probably get away if it, because she was always, so eager to forgive him, but with the surveillance cameras watching him, it could not be a wise idea. There was already enough suspicion, thanks to L.

That was going to change today.

Just look at it. Misa-Misa found this today on the bathroom mirror.

"Fine," he snapped.

It was a photoand not just any photo, just a snapshot of him, of _Light Yagami_. HIM. Hoping to shake the cobwebs from his mind, Light rubbed his eyes and peered closer. There was no fooling the senses. In fact, the photo looked disquietly familiar, and he suddenly recalled being shoved into one of those tight photo-booths at the festival that L had so graciously offered them tickets.

However, the sender apparently had burned out his eyes with some kind of acidand _recently_, because the offending sour smell was potent and warm in his hand. Taken aback, Light nearly dropped it and noticed with a lurching stomach that his name was written above his head, and where his lifeline should have been, were question marks. What? he exclaimed. It was as if the sender had knowledgeor even, he thought with a plunging stomach, had Shinigami eyes.

No. It was impossible, he said trying to calm himself.

It was ridiculous.

He was just anxious, that was all.

However, all proved to be hopelessly in vain when he turned a photo over and in red scribing ink it said, _Light Yagami, why dont you have any numbers?_

It could have been a ploy, constructed by L to unnerve himbut it seemed too aggressive, too hostile for him. Watari perhaps, there was hardly anything about the man to suggest what he was capable of doing.

Light cupped her face with his hand and he said more to himself than to her, "It's nothing."

OOO

Beyond Birthday stood across the street of what he suspected to be the Kira-Task-Force headquarters, or simple Ls current place of resident. It certainty looked like it. Looked like something the egocentric son of a bitch would have the funds to build. Probably designed it too. Still looking at the building he smirked and replied, And he said that _I_ had an a super-sized ego. Little prick.

He shook his head, and took another poisonous puff from his cigarette, exhaling swirls of toxic smoke through his flared nostrils like some possessed demon.

Behind the sunglasses, his shimmering eyes scanned the unsuspecting crowd, not really searching for anything in particular, not looking at the passing sheep, especially with those with I-Support-Kira T-shirts. Fucking idiots. Most tyrants start out as heroes.

He had changed his clothes, since his little adventure from the Shusuke Foundation for Mental Health, and now B.B. was dressed in blue jeans, a black v-neck t-shirts and wearing a leather jacket that was bit snug for his framethen again, what did he expect, it was not his. Beyond found it among Misoras affects at the hospital, and he couldnt find it in himself to leave it behind. Besides that, he could remember Naomi wearing it during the Los Angeles BB murder case, and several times, imagining her wearing nothing _but_ the jacket. Still, it was thanks to Miss Naomi Misora and now, only the scars on his face and neck could be seen. Too bad, Beyond wanted her to savor the sights; however, she was sleeping in the backseat, and now unconscious, only after a violent struggle that landed him with a spilt lip. Licking his lips, Beyond could still taste blood.

Now, that was twice that Naomi ruined his face.

Still, he failed to see why she resisted him so fervently, so aggressively; after all, Beyond told Naomi that he had no intentions of killing her. He thought that would settle her nerves. However, it wasnt like he didnt like her fighting him. On the contrary, it was such a turn-on. It was an experience that he longed repeating in the near future.

Just later, he reminded himself.

For now, there were other affairs that required his attention.

Today, L would die, and then, Beyond would see whether the word of the King Shinigami King had any value.

He watched the teeny-bobber, Misa-Misa walked up to the building and meet a young mansomeone who didnt have any numbers, just like her. A smiled twitched on his lips. "Light Yagami," he paused and added, "or should I refer you as Kira? Either way, you shall be meeting Beyond Birthday before too long, face-to-face. Until then, youre in for a hasty surprise. A wench in your plan. Hope you dont mind."

OOO

L was the centurys greatest detectiveable to mobilize every investigation bureau on the globe, with a public record alone that said he solved more than 3,500 cases, and sent three times that number to prisonand during it all, he never once showed his face. Not onceuntil _now_ of coursebut that was besides the point. The rules were simple, he never got involved unless there were more than ten victims, or a million dollars at stake, or unless personal reasons compelled his presence. Now, the Kira-Case was _personal_, and now, more than ever the thought of failure weighted heavily on his mind, and he had so much more to live for and to keep living. Failure would result in his death, as well as his heirs at the Wammy HouseNear, Mello, Matt, and the remaining 17 apprentices. True, they were backup, the second line of defense. It was their purpose, their meaning in life and yet, L was hesitant about using them in the real field, other than stimulations. Perhaps he was being parental.

Or overprotective.

Maybe, he was just paranoid.

Worse of all, the sounds of the bells had been unusually loud today. So much so that he felt a monstrous headache throbbing between his ears. Theyve been ringing nonstop all day. And L found it very distracting. He wondered if it was a church. A wedding? Or even a funeral?

There was just a foreboding sense of dread that was overwhelming, and refused to be ignored. L felt as though events were underway that were completely out of control. Somehow, he felt defeated. Now more than ever, the powerlessness rose within himbut with a fury, a rage so palpable L could taste it, could feel it choking and suffocating him. Despite his major accomplishments, even the famous and seemingly faceless, nameless detective had his limitations.

His black-coal eyes studied the members of the Kira-Case, especially Light Yagami, who sat with his back turn, eyes forward at the computer screen and the wheels in his mind turning. L still had his eyes on Light Yagami as Kira. Like Misa Amane, his personality change and it seemed that once the DeathNote was in his hands, he returned back into the cool, calculating college student with his hungry eyes on the prize. Besides, the 13-Day was too convenient.

Too convenient.

And Rem had more a maternal sense to Misa Amane than anyone else. Two notebooks meant two Shinigami, and L wondered where the other was, and more importantly if it belonged to the original Kira, aka Light Yagami.

"Say Light, youve finally free to leave headquarters, but it seems like you never go out. Even when Miss Amane comes to visit, you only chat with her for a few minutes outside. She seemed very distraught at your parting."

"Watching me, eh?" Light asked with a playful smile.

"How could I not, there are cameras covering every squared inch of this place.""

Forgot."

L took a sip of his tea. "You know, youre more of temporary help than anything. You are not completely obligated to the Kira-Case, physically or emotionally. Please feel free to have a love-life outside the Kira investigation."

"That can wait until weve managed to solve this case. I am not in the mood for love."

"Perhaps not," he mumbled. What an appropriate remark, and it was true enoughthere wasnt any time for love, even before the Kira-Case.

"Anyways, are you trying to suggest that I am a nuisance staying here?" Light asked turning around in his chair.

"No. Not at all."

L returned his eyes back to the computer screen, musing that something was not right. He had been thinking it, again and again. There was a 93% that Light Yagami was playing him, and the whole Kira-Task-Forced. He was uncharacteristically patient, and it suggested that he was waiting for something, something to happen.

But the bigger question remainedwhat was it?

Rubbing his temples the detective closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of those ringing bells.

Behind him the Kira-Task force members were listening with vague interest as the news came on. The young reporter said towards the camera and better yet, the teleprompter, "_And today in local news, the __Shusuke Foundation for Mental Health had to evacuate, due to a fire-alarm, which was later discovered to be a false-alarm rigged to smoke-bombs. An insider, who wish to remain anonymous reported the presence of the _Wara Ningyo_ nailed to the scene_."

Immediate at the mention of a Wara Ningyo at the scene, L froze and straightening his spine, perked his head up like a stalking tiger emerging from the tall grasses. Hitting a few buttons at the computer, he recorded the program onto the hard-drive and would examine it in much greater detail later. Rolling on the chairs wheel, he snatched the remote out of Matsudas hand, who was engorging himself on a stick of Pocky **O**, and turned up the volume.

"Hey!" he protested.

Soichiro Yagami demanded, "What is it, Ryuzaki?"

Could it be? No, there was no mistake, no question about it. It was him, it was Beyond Birthday.

"Is something wrong?"

"Is it Kira?" Aizawa asked.

"No," L replied hastily, "Nothing of the sort."

Looking up from their small, dainty computer screens, the remaining members of the Kira-Task Force, inched closer and watched the broadcast.

_"We now turn to a comment by Head of Sercuity, Mr. Gonzo."_

The camera panned towards a robust man dressed in uniform and he said shielding his eyes from the flashing lights, "_Thankfully, no one was seriously injured during the evacuations. Some scrapes and bruises. It could not been much worse."_

_"And what of the Wara Ningyo found at the scene? Could it be a calling call?" _

_"Where are you getting your information?" _he demanded suddenly, and then added with a softer tone, "_We dont know the significance of that quite yet. It might have been a robbery. There is a report that some of their inventory is missing, but we are looking into it. Until then, we suggest that citizens remain alert, and all private and public buildings have increased their security."_

The camera returned back to the news reporter.

"Nothing. Its just the news on Sakura TV," the detective answered as-matter-as-fact.

Hideki asked hesitantly, "Since when have you given a hoot about them, or anything they say?"

Its the new anchorwoman, isnt it," Matsuda teased with a less than modest wink, and nudged L in the ribs. "She is pretty _hot_, isnt it?"

L raised an eyebrow at him, and at his odd usage of vocabulary. "I have no way of knowing if she running a _fever_."

"No," he said. "Not hot as in temperature wise, but hot as in nice looking. Pretty."

Well that made more sense.

"You mean pleasing to the eye? That is an individual preference and I suppose on a large scale, the news reporter might be considered attractive, he mumbled. But she is not my type."

Matsuda frowned. "What is your type?"

Embarrassed at the personal invasion of the question he quickly returned his eyes back to the screen.

"That is enough," Soichiro Yagami snapped. "I fail to see how this relates."

L placed his fingers at his lips.

The news reporter continued, "_There is concern that this might be the just the beginning of a ring of smoke-bomb attacks, terrorism, and possibly a future arson in the not too distant futurelast of all, our viewers have expressed concern whether this individual might delay the New World Ceremony sponsored by the WSKF, We-Support-Kira-Foundation, scheduled later this week, but Sakura TV reminds the good citizens that we shall continued as originally planned_." The camera zoomed in closer. "_Also, we invite the detective known as L, so he may see the great justice that Kira has done and maybe, together, they can bring a New World_."

L shot the TV a mesmerizing, chilling intent look.

"What an idiot," Matsuda cried out angrily. "Like L would ever join forces with that murdering son of a bitch. Sorry, but that makes me so mad. I cannot wait to catch Kira, and put him where he belongs."

He nodded along, but his thoughts were far from what they were thinking.

So, it seemed that Beyond Birthday had finally a move, and yet L failed to comprehend the motivation for such an action, especially an assault on a Mental Hospital. There was a 9% chance that it was not him, and the while incident could have been a coincidence; however, according to his experience, there was no such thing as coincidence, only the illusion of coincidence. It did seem so out of character of him, attacking a pubic place, but B.B. hardy did anything without reason. There had to be a reason as to why

L pressed down on the intercom button and said, "Watari?"

The old man answered back, "Yes, Ryuzaki?"

"Is everything prepared as discussed?"

"Yes."

Aizawa asked, "Prepared what exactly?"

"Testing the DeathNote. I got approval to use the notebook in an execution."

Mogi jumped forward. "Whatever for? What are we testing for?"

"The 13-day rule."

Chewing on his thumbnail, L almost laughed at the irony about how the number 13 was similar to the letter B, and related back to the Los Angeles BB Murder Case. He proposed that 13 days should give Beyond Birthday plenty of time to finalize his plans, whatever they may be. After testing it, he would brief the Task-Force about B and then set up the manhunt to find him, and there was a 94% than B would go looking for Kira anyways and then L would have caught two serial killers for the price of one. It was a well-constructed plan, and yet he felt as though something was missing. A fatal flaw.

Unnoticed by L, Rem was standing behind him grinding down on her teeth.

Speaking into the intercom L said, "Watari. Please make arrangements to transport the notebook immediately."

"Stop Ryuzaki."

Matsuda cried out, "We cant do that! We already know the power of the notebook is real, dont we? That would be pointless."

"I am not testing whether the notebook is authentic, I am challenging the 13 day."

Hideki hissed, "Why? Because the letters are fucking ruff? That is a bunch of quack!"

"Not necessary." L finished his tea and sucked on the spoon. "A previous case of mine in 1999 dealt with the black-market selling pieces of valuable art, masterpiecesall of which were fakes. Roughness is a sign of forgery, or a recent addition to art."

Light Yagami protested, "Yeah, but the notebook is hardly art."

"On the contrary, if murder is the painting than the DeathNote is the paintbrush," L said, sounding too much like Beyond Birthday.

"Still," Matsuda yelled with a hand on Ryuzaki, "who is going to write the name? Once you write in the notebook. They have to obey the 13-Day rule, and keep writing names forever."

L repeated, "Again, if the rule is real." Taking a sip of his coffee-tea, L continued to explain, "I've prepared two death row inmates with the FBI. The notebook will be shipped with Watari, and to the prison. Inmate-A will write inmate Bs name in the notebook, and conform the result with inmate Bs death by heart-attack. Then we will wait thirteen days later. By doing so, we will prove the thirteen-day rule accuracy by observing whether or not inmate A dies."

Light Yagami asked, "And if the 13-day rule isnt real?"

The Shinigami insisted that it didnt know but if someone could kill by writing a name on a clipping from the notebook, it was not impossible, but whoever writes a name in this notebook has to wait another 13 days or die. Light Yagami and Miss Amane are still alive. 13 days. That is the only problem.

A problem that could be easily resolved.

"Than you, Light Yagami and Misa Amane are our prime suspects _again _and will be dealt accordingly."

Soichiro Yagami practically growled, "Ryuzaki, you still suggesting that my son."

L interrupted, "We are dealing with otherworldly forces. Regardless, of who is using the notebookI will still have to bring that person, whoever they might be, to justice. They will be _executed_."

Just then, L swore he saw Light Yagami smile.

OOO

_Perfect_, thought Light Yagami. _Everything was going perfectly. Exactly as planned_. Without anyone noticing, he stole a glance with Rem, who was glaring at him with murderous eyes. If looks could kill than he would be a pile of smoldering ashbut what did it mattered anyways? The Shinigami was powerless. Keeping his face under careful control, he gloated, _What are you going to do Rem? I know that despite being a Shinigami, you have feelings for Misaand I am using them to my advantage. There is no way that would turn your back on her. Not now. Not that she half her lifespan twice. Think about her happiness _

Looking at L he thought, _Ive got you now, L._

**OOO**

The Death-God Rem felt a foreboding sense of dread wash over her, as she walked through the wall, and into a private room just beyond the eyes and ears of the Task-Force. She continued to grind down on her teeth, half-expecting them to crumble inside her mouth. How did it come to this? There was only figure to blame, and it was none other than that insufferable human, Kira, or the man who sought to be a God, Light Yagami.

"Light Yagami."

Closing her eyes Rem hissed with malice, "Light Yagami you _knew_ this would happen, didnt you?"

"Of course, he did. He knew that she would do _anything_, and absolutely _everything_ to save Misa-Misa."

"You knew this would happen, didnt you. Ever since I told you that a Reaper would die if they extend a human life, and now, you plotted to get Misa in this predicament, so I would have to save her. Kill the people threatening her life, and thus I would expand her life, and thus turn to rubble and sand. Just like Gelus. This was your plan from the start, wasnt it? Everything worked out in your favor." Shoulders sagging, the Shinigami reluctantly grabbed her DeathNote with a pen in hand, and opened to a blank page. "Plotting to kill a Reaper, you are really a _devil_but Misa loves that man."

A voice called out dripping with sarcasm, "How _sentimental."_

Looking up, Rem nearly dropped her notebook out of surprise.

There was a curtain of impenetrable blackness in the corner, and it was quite noticeable against the sterile white walls. It was like liquid smoke, and within the animated smoke, an apparition was faintly visiblea figure that every Shinigami knew.

There was a harsh guttural sound, and the inky shadow seeped back like rolling ocean waves returning back to the bosom of Poseidon. A figure emerged, tentacles still clinging to a large head, an emaciated frame with wobbling, bony limbs. It was large, toweringly tall like a judging god, and yet, the shaped looked so regular and even solid enough. The cloud of shadow just sat there, motionless, as if confronting the Death-God.

As frightening as the apparition looked, it was disquietly familiar to Rem.

"Such weakness is reserved for humans," said the figure.

The Shinigami peered into the darkness gathering in the near concern. The Shinigami breathed out, "My Lord?"

A hand, with fingers as long as a childs arm emerged from the cloud of shadow, heavily emaciated like a Holocaust victim with loose, gray-blue skin so translucent that yellow parchment bone could be seen. An arm followed, then a shoulder and finally a head, complete with wispy bread that reached the floor. There was a gaping, black cave that served as a mouth, and as the thin lips pulled back, there was a row of tightly packed teeth thin as toothpicks.

It was the King of the Shinigami.

The Old Man was the prima eve of all Death-Gods.

He was the first, and would be the last.

The King of the Death-Gods was in original form. Gone was the sweet, girlish form of Quarter

Queen that Beyond Birthday had seen, and now it was replaced with a horrifying image, something impossibly alien.

"I am aware of all my subjects, of my children, and yet, I am taken back by this. What a calamity, a tragedy," he said, drawling in a wheezy gasp. "It seems you have taken a likeness towards _them_, just like _Gelus_," the Old Man said, inching closer as the surrounding shadows shed off, revealing more detail of his gruesome, angular body."

"He was my _brother_," Rem pointed out silently.

"Yes, daughter he _was_. Now, no more than dust in the wind. A mere memory." He said in a throaty, sputtering gasp, "than again, I suppose you are no different than him or Ryuk for that matter. Ryuk is your brother too."

"We are nothing alike," the Death-God snapped.

"Tendency to be around humans?" he challenged. "Is it a habit or a preference? Ryuk socializes around humans strictly for entertainment purposes, and _you_ have a maternal instinct for them, or at least for _one_." The Shinigami-King replied in a low guttural hiss, "That draft blond, is a rather appropriate, if not perfect representation of the fragile, nave human species isnt she?"

Rems eyebrow twitched at the insult.

"Mmm," he mused, "Could it be that _a human_ is," he paused wondering, "what do those insects refer it as ah, your _Achilles Heel_?"

The Death-God remained motionless, and unyielding to the harassment, even if it was from her father, the Shinigami-King.

"Nevertheless, Ryuk loves his fun, does he not? At first, his games were charming in the childish, idiotic way, and now, its annoying. I am seriously displeased. Perhaps it is safe to say that he is the origin of all this meddlesome troublebut no matter, he shall be dealt accordingly. A visit is necessary. The burden falls on me to find a remedy to his chaos. And this blatant act will cost him greatlybut not nearly as much as you, it seems."

Rem spared a glance to look at her notebook, the marked page still empty.

The Old Man paused, setting his vacant stare towards Rem, "Did you learn nothing from Gelus? Tell me Rem," the Old Man asked sincerely with his face distorted into confusion and then blatant rage, "am I do blame for this? Was I not clear in my instructions? Now, whatever are you doing, better yet, _why_?"

"I do it for Misa," she said.

The King scoffed, and if possible, the shadows darkened. "If you expand that humans life-span, you surrender your own. It becomes your demise. As a Death-God, _you cannot be life_."

"I know the consequences. She will be happy," Rem explained, placing the pen on the page.

"Do you really think that she will remember you, least of all, your act of kindness? Your maternal sacrifice? Their thoughts are fleeting, and selfish. Rem, your human-pet already has Gelus to her credit, must she add you to her collection? Worse of all, she is a pawn for _him_, that human who desires to be a God, though he is mortal. She may live today, but he may kill her tomorrow." He inched closer. The King lifted up a finger, moving it slowly as if he had all the time in the world or just the act of it was exhaustingafter all, he was practically ageless. Old as humanity. "I am not a beggar, but I ask you to reconsider. Do not write in that notebook."

"Forgive me father," she said, writing the first nameQullish Wammy. "I have _no _choice."

And then the second L Lawliet

"It is all about _choice, child."_

**OOO**

There was a choking, dying sound from the other side of the computer screen as Watari slumped against it, eyes drooping. His wrinkled hand reached out, determined to complete one mission before death, he pressed a red button, and at once, everything went black. A tab popped up, Deleting Files, just as Wataris heart beat one last time, and then grew still. All the Kira-Task-Force could do was watch helplessly and powerlessly as countless man-hours disappeared, without any trace that they ever existed.

L breathed out in horror, "Watari."

"Whoa! What is going on?"

"The files."

"Ryuzaki?"

"I told Watari to delete everything if _something_ should happen--The Shinigami," he cried out angrily. "Where is the--"

Suddenly Ryuzaki-L felt a violent tightness in his chest and froze, paralyzed by the intense, ever persistent and growing pain. L had calculated the possibility of his own death more times than he truly cared to count, and now, he felt the crude reality bearing down upon him. His breath stopped in his lungs and his mouth gaped open desperate to quench his thirst for air. Sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip. Staring forward with wide eyes, the silver spoon in his hand clattered to the floor and the sound was deafening. The world was turning dark and blurry, and all he could feel was the pain in his chest and his lungs as they ached. L Lawliet could hear the horrible, pounding silenceand just the bells, sounding his funeral.

L sagged in the chair and slid off. Now, the floor was coming at him at slow pace, and he was falling, _falling_.

Fallingfalling into an endless, bleak abyss.

At once a pair of arms engulfed him, embracing his dying body and the owner was none other than Light Yagami. "Ryuzaki!"

"Were all going to die. The Shinigami is going to kill us."

Mastuda moaned, "No, no, no. No!"

The world was turning dark and blurry and all he could feel was the pain in his chest and hear the silence, horrible, pounding silence. He tensed, his body jerking. Just the bells, sounding his funeral.

Now, his eyes felt heavyso terribly heavy.

Still through the graining darkness, there was the faint image of a pearly-white smile grinning down at hima triumphant smirk.

OOO

Rem closed the book with a snap. "It is done."

She smiled, even as her lips started to chap and flake off.

The Old Man did not look flustered, merely disappointed.

Then he smiled.

He said, "Your noble, motherly intentions are all in vain, Rem. And Im afraid that I must interfere. This move of yours has forced my hand. I hoped avoiding this confrontation but as humans say desperate times call for desperate measures."

Straightening up, there on his sunken, bony chest, was a crudely sewed suture-line that ran from clavicle, down the sternum and down to tip of the pubis bone. Slipping a finger as long as childs arm underneath, the Old Man pulled, undoing the feeble thread, and his bowels spilled out, landing on the black and white tiled floor with a wet, sickening spat. He reached into the gaping, empty cavity and pulled out something, a thin _notebook_.

Not just any notebook, but a white one with a layer of dust.

"It seems that Death-Gods and humans alike, children do not listen to their parents."

Jaw trembling Rem breathed out, "It can't exist."

"Yes, even rumors have some lick of truth," he responded gravely, writing a name with his long, thin fingers. "Spare me that look, Rem. I crafted the DeathNote and its rules, and thus I have the innate privilege of breaking them. Besides, if you are going to craft the most dangerous weapon, you better have an antidote."

You said yourself, "we cannot be life."

"There has to be life before death," he pointed out.

Rem stepped forwards, and yet, despite her intention, her legs crumbed into a growing pile of ash and dust. "No. Please."

The King of the Shinigami knelt down, his joints protesting and bending in odd angles. He loomed over her. "Maybe I am growing sentimental. I am only writing one name. You will have only died for one death. Maybe that might bring you closure."

The quivering pile demanded, "Why? Why? You _hate_ them. Hate humans. Why save one?"

Stroking his beard he replied, "Same as you, RemI made a choice, and so did Beyond Birthday."

His empty sockets bored down upon her.

She whispered still having a mouth, "You found them, didnt you? You found your--"

With a nod of satisfaction the Old Man replaced the notebook into his chest cavity, and gathering up his split intestines, crudely shoved them back inside. His fingers took the dangling thread and sewed himself back up, his secret treasure buried deep inside. A rather ironic image of life within death.

"That I did."

OOO

Light Yagami returned to the central corner room after finally, finding the pile of ash that used to be the Death-God Rem, and then the smoldering remains of her DeathNote. So, it seemed that she didnt want him to have her killing notebook. It was a childish play, thinking that it would ruffle his feathers. Kira shrugged his shoulders, as he imagined that somehow it gave her great satisfaction, a final stab at him before she died. Before she sacrificed herself. He wanted huffed a short laugh, but with a great deal of self-control managed not to, partly because of the other members in the room. There would be plenty of time later.

"The Shinigami is gone," Light reported drearily.

No one acknowledged him; instead, their interest was focused on the body of Ryuzaki lying on the floor.

Ryuzaki, or better known as the fable L.

Finally, he was _dead_.

He was a formable enemy, worthy of Kira but he needed to die.

He looked closer at the scene before him, and with a tinge of disgust realized that the Kira-Task Force was trying to help L. It was almost comical, if not a little embarrassing. He watched their fruitless effortsas his father ran over with an oxygen tank and placed a mask over Ls mouth and nose, yanking it up to the maximum content. He encouraged him to breathe, Its okay, Ryuzaki. Take it in. Nice and slow. Mogi was holding him, and probed his head on his lap. Matsuda was holding his hand, tears trailing down in his face. Aizawa and Hideki looked on speechless.

"What are you doing?" Light said, "Just stop it. Hes gone. Ryuzaki is gone."

Matsuda cried out, "No hes' not."

His father looked up at him, a smile on his face. "It's true, Light. Ryuzaki is alive."

"What?" he gasped, still not believing it.

"I've got a pulse. Steady, and hes breathing. Shallow."

"Watari?" he asked.

"He _is_ dead," Mogi said sadly.

Light frowned, thinking it wasnt possible. The effects of the DeathNote were absolute, and could not be reversed. And then, he saw it. True enough, there was a pulse in Ls chest and his lungs, as shallow as they may be were taking in air. Naturally, he was pale, his skin almost transparent; but, L was paler than what Light remembered, and briefly it gave him the appearance of a reanimated corpse. His limbs, always slender, looked unexpectedly gaunt, emaciated. In fact, his body seemed limp. Suddenly, he stirred, arching his back and moving his head to the side.

Eyes still close, and if someone with Shinigami-Eyes were there, they would have seen a spectacular sight, hovering above his head was not one, but two life-spans. One froze in time, and the other ticking.

TBC

Authors Notes

Pocky **O**A Japanese sweet. Think about a long peztle covered it chocolate. They are quite addictive.

Next chapter, is called Frightful Awakenings and Naomi Misora wakes up in Beyonds tender care. He has another plan to get Kiras attention, just as L wakes up.

Hoped to enjoyed it. See you soon.


End file.
